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littp://www.arcliive.org/details/beautynicknoveloOOgibbricli 


She  stood  quite  silent  for  a  moment,  staring  at  Nick. 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAfTU  PAGE 

I    Great  Discoveries 7 

II    The  Coming  of  the  Beast  ....  27 

III  The  Girl  of  the  Ground-Floor  Flat  49 

IV  The  House  of  the  Beast     ....  70 
V    Beauty  Goes  Away 96 

PART  II 

I    The  Cottage  by  the  Sea     .     .     .     .  125 

II    The  Admiral  and  the  Lonely  Lady  .  152 

III  The  Young  Lady  with  Long  Legs     .  191 

IV  The  Father  of  the  Man    ....  226 

PART  III 

I    Nicholas  in  London 261 

II    The  Unknown  Mother      ....  282 

III  The  Choice 310 

IV  The  Wonderful  Lady 334 

V  The  Rod  of  Fate 359 

VI    The  Plot  of  Life 384 


446575 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 
GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

Nicholas  Barton  was  bom  with  a  queer  tem- 
perament. He  was  one  of  those  who  think 
a  great  deal  but  say  very  little.  He  was  a  dreamer, 
something,  perhaps,  of  a  poet  At  least  beneath  all 
his  quietude  and  reserve  there  was  a  great  well  of 
emotion,  with  deep  waters  which  threatened  to  rise 
and  overwhelm  him  when  they  wer-e  stiixed  by  kind- 
ness or  unkindness,  by  queer  unexpected  bei»U;ties 
of  sound  or  color  or  scent,  or  by  some  keen,  sharp 
touch  from  one  of  those  mysterious  fingers  of  fate 
which  sometimes  come  out  of  the  darkness  to  pluck 
at  human  heart  strings. 

He  was  conscious  of  great  mysteries  about  him. 
Sometimes  he  walked  a  little  way  toward  them,  with 
peering  eyes,  with  a  wild  beating  of  the  heart,  with 
an  adventurous  fear,  like  a  primitive  creature  in  a 
great  forest.  Then,  panic-stricken,  he  would  hurry 
back  to  his  familiar  work,  saying  nothing  of  his 
venture,  or  of  the  things  he  had  seen. 

He  was  very  watchful,  and,  as  it  were,  always  on 
his  guard,  as  though  encompassed  by  hidden  perils. 
Because  it  seemed  to  him  that  at  any  moment  the 
vast  powers  about  him  might  change  the  familiar 

[7] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

into  the  unfamiliar,  the  known  into  the  unknown. 
And  it  was  of  the  unknown  that  he  was  afraid, 
though  he  was  tempted  to  explore  it. 

Yet  he  was  not  a  coward,  nor  weak-willed,  nor  of 
morbid  moods.  There  were  times  when  he  showed 
extraordinary  courage.,  facing  great  dangers  with  a 
quiet  and  noble  resolution.  His  strength  of  will 
amounted  at  times  to  a  stubborn  obstinacy  when  not 
all  the  great  powers  about  him,  not  Bristles  nor 
Beauty  nor  Polly — not  even  the  Beast — could  make 
him  budge  an  inch  if  he  did  not  want  to  budge.  As 
ferbein]^. morbid,  I  think  Nicholas  Barton's  history 
will  prove  the  falsity  of  such  a  charge.  He  was  a 
dreajti-jer,  aiid  ;he  liked  loneliness,  and  he  indulged 
in  queer,  fantastic,  and,  sometimes,  preposterous 
imaginations,  but  his  dreams  were  such  as  come  to 
people  who  are  sensitive  to  the  beauty  and  wonder  of 
life,  and  in  his  loneliness  he  was  cheerful,  and  busy 
with  brain  and  hands.  His  chief  desire  was  to  get 
at  the  truth  of  things,  and  that  kept  him  busy.  Be- 
cause in  spite  of  his  insatiable  curiosity,  his  intense 
inquisitiveness,  his  probings  and  searchings,  the 
truth  of  things  was  always  difficult  to  grasp.  Truth 
was  always  playing  a  game  of  hide-and-seek,  like 
God,  like  the  squirrel  (whom  he  loved  better  than 
God),  like  Bristles  when  he  said  "Let's  be  bears!" 
— ^and  disappeared  under  the  table-cloth. 

Yet  it  was  this  desire  for  truth,  this  questioning 
[8] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

of  his  soul,  the  big,  eternal  queries  in  his  eyes,  which 
gave  to  Nicholas  Barton  his  peculiar  power,  and 
made  people  a  little  frightened  of  him.  Even  before 
he  had  uttered  his  first  word  in  the  world,  when  he 
lay  dumb  and  watchful  in  a  wheeled  carriage,  Bris- 
tles had  been  scared  by  his  son's  eyes. 

*'He  seems  to  look  into  one's  bones,"  said  Bristles. 
"I  believe  he  knows  what  an  awful  rotter  I  am." 

"He  frightens  me  sometimes  with  the  enormous 
gravity  in  those  blue  eyes  of  his,"  said  Beauty.  **I 
am  sure  he  knows  when  I  lose  my  temper  with  you." 

**You  shouldn't  lose  your  temper  with  me,"  said 
Bristles.     "You  know  how  much  I  love  you." 

"That  is  why,"  said  Beauty.  "If  you  had  a  little 
bit  of  the  bully  in  you  I  should  be  as  meek  as  a 
lamb.    I  think  every  woman  should  marry  a  bully." 

"Hush !"  said  Bristles.    "The  kid  is  listening." 

"How  absurd  of  you!  As  if  he  could  under- 
stand!" said  Beauty. 

And  yet  she  had  a  quaint  idea  that  Nicholas  Bar- 
ton, her  son,  had  listened  and  understood.  For  his 
blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  his  great  desire 
for  truth.  He  had  that  grave  stare,  before  which, 
a  few  years  later  in  his  life,  his  mother  drooped  her 
eyelashes  so  as  to  hide  her  soul. 

That  was  when  he'  was  eight  years  old,  and  after 
the  Beast  had  come. 

During  those  eight  years  of  life  he  had  been  mak- 
l9i 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

mg  many  strange  discoveries  about  the  world  in 
which  he  lived.  He  discovered  that  he  was  not 
the  only  kid  in  the  world,  but  that  there  were 
thousands  of  kids,  each  of  them  belonging  to  a 
Bristles  and  a  Beauty,  and  living  in  the  square 
holes  behind  the  big  walls  which  hid  them  from 
him  after  they  had  run  away  from  the  shadows 
which  crept  across  the  grass  and  stole  down  from 
the  tree-trunks  and  whispered  together  in  dark 
corners,  just  about  the  time  when  the  lamps  became 
alive.  That  discovery  came  to  him  gradually.  It 
must  have  been  when  he  was  four  years  old  that 
the  tremendous  fact  of  other  kids,  more  than  ever 
he  could  count  by  using  his  ten  fingers  over  and  over 
again,  burst  upon  him  like  a  thunder  clap.  It  made 
him  feel  rather  miserable  at  first,  because,  as  he 
told  Polly,  it  made  him  feel  frightfully  little.  Of 
course  Polly  could  not  understand — she  never  could 
— and  he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  explain  to  her. 
It  was  about  this  time  that  he  made  the  discovery 
that  the  world  was  ever  so  much  bigger  than  the 
biggest  thing  he  could  think  of.  It  was  bigger,  even, 
than  Battersea  Park.  Polly  said  it  was  a  million 
times  bigger  than  Battersea  Park,  but  then  she 
could  not  tell  him  what  a  million  was.  After  count- 
ing up  to  twenty  she  said  it  was  ever  so  much  more, 
but  she  couldn't  be  bothered.  That  made  him  feel 
frightfully  little,  too,  and  he  was  glad  to  get  back 
home,  where  sizes  were  rnore  convenient,  and  where 
[lo] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

he  felt  bigger,  although  he  had  to  dimb  almost  as 
high  as  the  sky — he  never  could  count  the  number 
of  steps  exactly  right  each  time — before  he  reached 
his  front  door,  and  although  the  grandfather's  clock 
in  the  hall  was  an  enormous  giant  with  a  great 
cavern  inside  his  stomach.  But  here,  once  past  the 
grandfather's  clock,  he  was  safe — safe  from  the 
thought  of  bigness  which  frightened  him.  His  own 
room  was  full  of  little  things,  a  chair  in  which  he 
could  sit  without  dangling  his  legs,  a  bed  in  which 
he  could  lie  without  wondering  whether  he  would 
ever  find  his  way  out  again,  and  a  chest  of  drawers 
which  he  could  overlook  if  he  stood  on  a  hassock. 
That  was  where  most  of  his  friends  lived — most  of 
them  like  the  British  Army,  and  the  Golliwog,  and 
the  Lady  Without-a-head,  and  the  Crab  which 
wouldn't  walk,  lived  in  a  crowded-up  way  in  a  cup- 
board which  sometimes  he  didn't  dare  to  open  in 
the  dark  because  the  Golliwog  seemed  to  blink  its 
eyes,  rather  nastily,  and  because  Something  might 
jump  out.  But  other  friends  lived  in  different  parts 
of  the  room.  Peter  Rabbit  always  lived  on  the 
mantelpiece,  next  to  Jemmy,  the  Dog-with-one-ear, 
and  not  far  away  from  Bill,  the  Cat  Without-a- 
tail.  The  Wheelbarrow  lived  under  the  washstand, 
with  its  ears  sticking  out.  The  Red  Engine  lived 
in  the  hearth-place,  ready  to  steam  away  on  far 
journeys  with  him  as  soon  as  he  fell  asleep. 

In  the  dining-room  his  best  friends  were  the  Lions 
[II] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

with  rings  through  their  noses  on  the  sideboard — 
they  were  laughing  lions,  though  he  had  never  found 
out  the  joke — and  the  hassock  on  the  hearth-rug, 
which  was  a  fat,  comfortable  old  fellow  who  didn't 
mind  being  kicked,  and  the  arm-chair  where  Bristles 
sat  when  he  smoked  his  pipe,  which  always  held 
out  its  arms  as  though  longing  to  embrace  some- 
body. At  the  back  of  the  arm-chair  were  two  but- 
tons like  eyes,  which  winked  and  blinked  in  the 
firelight,  so  that  Nicholas  Barton  used  to  turn  round 
to  see  if  they  were  looking  when  he  stole  across 
the  room  to  peep  inside  the  sideboard  cupboard,  or 
when  he  went  to  the  window  to  see  if  the  lamps  had 
come  to  life  after  the  shadow-people  had  come  Into 
the  street.  Here  in  the  dining-room  also  lived  the 
magic  carpet,  where  a  great  forest  grew,  full  of 
flowers  and  creeping  plants,  in  which  Nicholas 
Barton  used  to  wander  on  great  adventures,  until 
sometimes  he  was  so  tired  that  he  fell  asleep. 

With  these  friends,  and  many  others  in  the  kitchen 
and  the  bedrooms — such  as  Mr.  Big  Kettle,  Mr. 
Rolling  Hn,  and  the  magic  clothes-horse,  which 
could  be  changed  into  a  giant's  castle,  a  railway  sta- 
tion, or  a  butcher's  shop,  Nicholas  was  more  intimate 
and  unreserved  than  with  the  people  who  did  not 
understand  them.  He  often  whispered  things  to 
Peter  Rabbit,  or  into  one  of  the  hassock's  ears, 
which  he  would  not  have  told  to  Bristles  or  Beauty, 
or  even  to  Polly,  because  he  understood  them,  and 

[12] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

th^y  understood  him.  They  never  laughed  at  him 
when  he  made  one  of  his  big  discoveries.  They 
never  told  him  to  do  things  which  he  didn't  want 
to  do,  and  they  never  surprised  him  by  doing  the 
most  unexpected  things  when  he  wasn't  ready  for 
them.  Besides,  their  whole  life  was  lived  inside 
the  flat,  so  that  he  knew  all  about  them,  whereas 
Bristles  and  Beauty  were  always  going  away  myste- 
riously and  leading  a  secret  life  of  which  he  had 
no  knowledge  or  share. 

Although  he  was  always  watching  these  two 
people  he  could  never  be  quite  sure  of  them,  or  make 
out  the  mystery  of  them.  Bristles  was  a  man  of 
queer  habits  and  queer  character.  He  was  pretty 
good  at  fairy  tales  in  the  early  morning  after  Nick 
had  come  in  from  his  own  room  to  snuggle  into 
Bristles'  bed  and  pinch  his  nose,  but  presently,  just 
at  the  exciting  point  where  the  Small  Boy  was 
knocking  at  the  door  of  the  Giant's  Castle,  or  when 
he  had  been  wisked  up  to  the  stars  on  a  witch's 
broom-stick.  Bristles  would  give  a  great  yawn — so 
that  Nick  would  feel  as  if  he  might  tumble  to  the 
very  bottom  of  Red  Lane — and  calmly  go  to  sleep 
again.  If  Nick  ventured  to  pinch  his  nose  once  more 
— which  was  not  always  a  safe  thing  to  do — and 
if  he  went  on  with  the  story,  it  was  just  as  likely 
as  not  he  would  muddle  the  whole  thing  up  and 
change  the  Small  Boy  into  a  Fairy  Princess,  or 
the  witch  into  an  ugly  dragon  with  fiery  nostrils. 

[13] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

He  was  a  most  forgetful  man,  and  made  Nick  be- 
lieve that  all  men  had  this  habit  of  forgetfulness,  so 
that  he  was  terrified  lest  the  same  thing  might  creep 
upon  him  as  he  grew  older  and  older  every  time  the 
clock  ticked.  Bristles  would  begin  a  game  of  bears 
under  the  table-cloth,  and  behave  very  well  for  a 
little  while,  but  then  suddenly  he  would  forget,  and 
instead  of  growling  like  a  bear  would  begin  to  roar 
like  a  lion,  or  grunt  like  a  pig,  or  crow  like  a 
cock-a-doodle-doo.  Or  if  he  pretended  to  be  a 
railway  train  on  the  way  to  the  North  Pole,  his 
forgetfulness  would  come  on  suddenly  and  he  would 
change  into  a  fire-engine,  so  that  the  whole  game 
went  astray,  in  spite  of  Nick's  angry  shouts. 

He  was  a  weak  fellow,  too,  was  Bristles.  Some- 
times he  would  pretend  to  get  very  angry,  and 
threaten  to  give  Nick  a  jolly  good  hiding,  but  Nick 
pooh-poohed  his  threats,  knowing  the  falsity  of  them. 
Once,  when  Nick  called  Beauty  a  dirty  toad,  a 
beastly  wretch,  and  a  nasty  damn  thing — all  names 
learned  from  Polly  in  her  moments  of  excitement — 
Bristles  was  ordered  by  Beauty  herself  to  take  him 
into  the  bedroom  and  thrash  him  severely.  For  a 
long  time  Bristles  refused,  pleading  that  Nick  did 
not  mean  what  he  said  and  that  he  was  too  young 
to  be  thrashed,  and  that,  after  all,  boys  will  be  boys. 
Both  people  had  red  faces — Beauty  was  like  a  flam- 
ing poppy — and  spoke  in  loud  voices,  while  Nick 
[14] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  grave,  observant 
eyes. 

"Good  heavens!  the  boy  will  go  to  the  bad  if  he 
is  not  beaten  sometimes/'  cried  Beauty.  ** Surely 
you  are  not  going  to  let  him  see  that  you  are  afraid 
of  punishing  him,  are  you?" 

At  the  end  of  the  argument,  Bristles  took  Nick  by 
the  hand  and  led  him  to  the  bedroom,  and  carefully 
closed  the  door. 

"Look  here,  Nick,  old  boy,"  said  Bristles,  "I 
have  got  to  beat  you.     So  take  it  like  a  man." 

Nick  gave  a  piercing  howl  before  a  finger  had 
been  laid  upon  him,  and  made  a  frightful  noise, 
while  Bristles  became  very  pale,  and  then  thrust 
a  penny  into  his  hand  and  said: 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man.  Stop  crying,  and  tell  Beauty 
you  didn't  mean  what  you  said." 

Some  time  after  Bristles  and  Nick  strolled  back 
into  the  drawing-room.  Bristles  was  whistling  in 
a  careless  way,  while  Nick,  clasping  his  penny,  was 
wondering  why  Bristles  always  whistled  when  he 
tried  to  hide  anything  from  Beauty. 

"I  hope  you  gave  it  to  him  hot  and  strong,"  said 
Beauty.  *1  never  heard  such  language  from  a 
child." 

Bristles  nodded,  and  said,  "He  won't  speak  like 
that  again." 

Beauty  drew  Nick  close  to  her,  and  whispered 
into  his  ear: 

its] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Bristles  didn't  want  to  hurt  you,  Nick,  but  you 
must  be  punished  when  you  do  bad  things." 

Nick  gazed  into  Beauty's  eyes,  in  his  grave, 
thoughtful  way. 

"Bristles  didn't  hurt  me.  He  didn't  touch  me. 
And  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  punished  when  I 
do  bad  things.     Nobody  ever  punished  you." 

"What?"  cried  Beauty,  looking  at  Bristles  with 
eyes  like  glowing  fires.  "You  didn't  touch  him, 
after  all?    Oh,  you  blithering  idiot!" 

She  was  furiously  angry,  and  Bristles  said 
"Damn"  and  then  was  very  quiet  while  he  filled 
and  smoked  his  pipe.  And  from  that  day  Nick  had 
no  fear  of  Bristles,  and  knew  him  to  be  a  weak-willed 
fellow.  But  they  were  good  friends,  for  Bristles 
was,  on  the  whole,  obedient,  and  understood  things, 
and  was  not  so  grown-up  in  his  mind  as  most 
people  who  have  lost  belief  in  magic  carpets,  and 
chairs  with  blinking  eyes,  and  old  lions  with  rings 
through  their  noses,  who  laugh  and  laugh  at  some 
joke  which  they  never  tell. 

Yet  even  with  Bristles  one  could  not  feel  quite 
safe.  Nick  knew  that  between  this  man  and  Beauty 
there  were  secrets  which  they  hid  from  him.  He 
heard  them  quarreling  sometimes  after  he  had  gone 
to  bed.  At  least,  it  was  generally  Beauty  who  quar- 
reled, in  a  rather  shrill,  high  voice,  like  the  top  notes 
in  the  piano,  while  Bristles  only  grunted,  or  rumbled 
in  the  bass  notes.  Having  been  away  all  day,  he 
[i6J 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

would  come  home  sometimes  looking  sulky  (as  Polly 
would  say  when  Nick  put  on  the  same  look),  and 
instead  of  playing  games,  would  say,  "I  don't  feel 
like  it  to-night,  old  man,"  and  sit  staring  into  the 
fire — though  he  never  could  see  the  same  pictures 
there  which  Nick  saw — and  giving  every  now  and 
then  a  big  sigh,  and  then  getting  up  quite  suddenly, 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  room  just  like  a  lion  at 
the  Zoo,  with  the  same  worried  look  in  his  eyes. 

Beauty  was  hardly  ever  at  home  in  the  evenings, 
and  perhaps  that  accounted  for  the  sulkiness  of 
Bristles.  Nick  believed  that  must  be  the  reason,  for 
he  asked  one  day: 

"Why  do  you  play  at  lions  all  by  yourself?" 

''Because  I  am  as  lonely  as  an  old  lion  in  a  cage," 
said  Bristles. 

"Why  are  you  as  lonely  as  an  old  lion  in  a  cage  ?" 
asked  Nick. 

"Because  Beauty,  my  lady  lioness,  goes  to  play 
with  monkeys,"  said  Bristles. 

After  that  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  said: 
"After  all,  I  am  not  quite  lonely.  Let  you  and  I 
play  at  bears." 

But  Nick  wondered  within  himself  why  did 
Beauty  go  and  play  with  monkeys.  Or,  if  she  was 
so  fond  of  monkeys,  why  didn't  she  take  Bristles  to 
join  in  the  game? 

It  was  only  very  rarely-  that  Bristles  went.  When 
he  did,  he  put  on  black  clothes  and  a  waistcoat  with 

[17] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  big  hole  in  the  middle  of  it,  so  that  a  stiff  white 
shirt  showed  through,  and  a  hat  that  folded  in  and 
out  with  a  click.  But  it  didn't  agree  with  him. 
Nick  always  knew  that  he  would  be  sulky  next  morn- 
ing after  he  had  been  to  see  Beauty  play  with  the 
monkeys. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  could  not  lie  in  bed 
so  long  as  Beauty.  He  was  always  up  to  break- 
fast with  Nick,  while  Beauty  lay  in  bed  until  lunch 
time,  so  that  Nick  had  to  go  on  tip-toe  past  her 
door,  lest  he  should  get  "What  for,"  as  Polly  said. 

That  was  one  of  the  differences  between  Beauty 
and  Bristles,  though  it  did  not  explain  all  the  mys- 
tery of  them.  There  were  other  differences. 
Bristles  was  out  all  day,  and  Beauty  was  out  all 
night — or,  at  least,  so  far  into  the  night  that  Nick 
was  never  awake  when  she  came  back.  Bristles 
dressed  himself,  just  like  he  had  taught  Nick  to 
dress  himself,  but  Beauty  always  wanted  Polly  to 
help  her,  and  Polly  was  always  in  a  bad  humor 
during  dressing-time,  and  said  "Drat  the  woman!" 
when  Beauty  called  for  hot  water,  and  "Lord  Al- 
mighty!" when  she  called  for  a  clean  chemise,  and 
"Oh,  what  a  life!"  when  Beauty  sat  back  in  a 
blue  dressing-gown  while  Polly  did  her  hair,  and 
while  Nick  sat  on  a  small  stool  in  a  room  littered 
with  clothes  about  the  floor,  with  newspapers,  sup- 
per things,  cigarette-ends,  and  paper-backed  novels 
with  lovely  ladies  on  the  covers. 
[i8] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

But  none  of  these  picture  ladies  were  quite  as 
lovely  as  Beauty.  It  was  quite  a  long  time  before 
Nick  made  that  discovery.  He  made  it  one  morn- 
ing when  Polly  was  doing  Beauty's  hair.  It  was 
long  golden  hair,  which  shone  and  sparkled  in  the 
sunlight  which  came  through  the  window.  It  seemed 
to  Nick  that  it  flowed  down  from  Beauty's  head 
like  a  river  of  gold  which  he  had  once  seen  in  a 
waking  dream.  And  as  she  sat  smiling  at  her  own 
image  in  the  glass,  while  she  smoked  a  gold-tipped 
cigarette,  it  seemed  to  Nick  that  her  face  was  like 
one  of  the  dream  princesses  whom  he  had  once  mar- 
ried in  a  great  castle  when  Peter  Rabbit  had  gone 
on  a  big  adventure  with  him.  Only  Beauty  was 
not  quite  the  same  as  the  dream  princess,  because 
she  had  blue  eyes  instead  of  green,  and  because  her 
smile  showed  a  row  of  teeth  like  little  white  birds 
in  a  nest  of  rose-leaves. 

"Why  are  you  so  lovely,  Beauty?"  asked  Nick. 

''Bless  the  boy!"  said  Beauty,  laughing.  "I  sup- 
pose God  made  me  so." 

"But  why  did  God  make  Polly  so  ugly  and  you  so 
lovely?" 

It  was  Polly's  turn  to  laugh. 

"Lor,  ma'am,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"Perhaps  because  God  made  Polly  so  good,  and 
me  so  wicked,"  said  Beauty,  who  seemed  to  find  a 
great  joke  in  Nick's  most  serious  questioning. 

"That's  no  reason  at  all,"  said  Nick.  "It  would 
[19] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

have  been  more  sensible  if  God  had  made  both  of 
you  lovely  and  both  of  you  good." 

Polly  laughed  so  much  that  she  dropped  all 
Beauty's  hair-pins,  which  Nick  picked  up  one  by 
one,  wishing  to  goodness  that  grown-up  people  did 
not  laugh  at  the  wrong  places.  But  Beauty  did  not 
laugh  this  time.  She  put  her  head  down  a  little 
and  said: 

"I  wish  God  could  have  managed  that,  little  Nick. 
It  would  have  been  so  much  better  for  me.  It  would 
save  me  such  a  lot  of  worry." 

Nick  came  to  the  conclusion  that  God,  whom  he 
imagined  to  be  a  very  big  and  superior  kind  of 
policeman  with  white  gloves  and  enormous  brass 
buttons,  always  watching  people  from  mysterious 
hiding-places,  had  had  a  quarrel  with  Beauty,  and 
wanted  to  prosecute  her  for  not  keeping  off  the 
grass.  The  idea  rather  frightened  him,  because  he 
was  afraid  that  she  might  be  taken  away  one  day, 
by  a  sudden  pounce. 

He  was  often  rather  frightened  about  Beauty,  be- 
cause she  had  rather  alarming  ways.  For  one  thing, 
she  was  always  in  a  great  hurry,  except  in  getting 
out  of  bed.  She  would  hurry  over  her  meals,  and 
keep  calling  out  to  Polly  to  hurry  up,  and  then  whisk 
away  in  a  hansom  cab,  like  Cinderella  in  the  fairy 
coach.  Sometimes  she  came  home  rather  breath- 
lessly, and  told  Bristles  or  Polly  that  she  had  just 
flown  in  for  a  few  minutes  and  must  fly  off  again 

[20] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

as  soon  as  possible.  Nicholas  had  believed  at  first 
that  she  really  possessed  the  power  of  flying,  but 
when  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes  that  she  generally 
drove  up  in  a  cab,  he  considered  that  she  was  not 
quite  truthful — which  was  a  shock  to  him. 

Another  of  her  alarming  ways  was  the  habit  of 
talking  to  herself — laughing  to  herself,  and  crying 
to  herself  in  the  dining-room  when  the  door  was 
shut.  Nick  often  held  his  breath  and  listened  to 
Beauty's  voice  speaking  inside  the  room,  saying  the 
same  things  over  and  over  again.  Once  he  heard 
her  laughing  quite  loudly,  not  once,  but  many  times, 
and  he  believed  she  must  have  found  out  the  joke 
at  which  the  lions  on  the  sideboard  were  always 
smiling.  He  wanted  to  ask  her,  but  somehow  the 
fact  that  ske  had  shut  him  outside  the  door  before 
she  began  to  laugh  to  herself  made  him  afraid. 

She  frightened  him  also  by  getting  angry  quite 
quickly  and  suddenly,  by  slapping  him  on  the  hand 
so  that  it  was  as  red  as  though  it  had  been  stung 
by  a  bee,  and  then  kissing  it  and  crying  out  that 
she  didn't  mean  to  hurt  her  darling  Nick  and  that 
she  was  a  wretch  to  lose  her  temper.  Once  she  lost 
her  temper  so  badly — it  was  about  something  that 
Bristles  said — that  she  look  a  vase  off  the  mantel- 
piece and  let  it  drop  onto  the  fireplace,  so  that  it 
smashed  into  a  hundred  pieces,  which  Polly  had  to 
clear  away  with  a  dustpan  and  broom.  Nick  felt 
his  heart  going  tick-tock  like  the  big  clock  in  the 

[21] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

hall,  and  his  eyes  growing  larger  and  larger  until 
they  seemed  as  big  as  his  head.  There  was  a 
dead  silence  for  a  moment  after  that  awful  crash. 
Then  Bristles  shrugged  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears 
— Nick  learned  the  trick  from  him — and  went  out  of 
the  room  whistling  a  tune.  Beauty  put  her  hands 
to  her  face,  and  tear-water  oozed  through  her  fingers, 
and  her  body  shook  like  a  tree  in  Battersea  Park 
when  the  wind  blows.  It  was  the  sight  of  Beauty's 
shaking  body  which  made  Nick  suddenly  rush  to 
her,  clutching  at  her  skirts  with  a  great  howl  of 
grief.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  Beauty  took  her  hands 
away  from  her  face,  and  burst  out  laughing, 
although  her  eyes  were  all  moist  and  shining. 

"If  you  ever  break  a  vase  like  that,"  she  said,  "I'll 
skin  you  alive,  Nick." 

"Why  did  you  break  it?"  asked  Nick. 

"Because  I  had  a  monkey  on  my  back,"  said 
Beauty.     "Such  an  evil  little  monkey." 

Nick  walked  round  and  looked  at  his  mother's 
back. 

"I  think  you  tell  most  frightful  whoppers,"  he 
said. 

And  yet  he  knew  that  better  than  anything  in  the 
world  to  him  was  Beauty  on  her  good  days.  That 
was  when  she  was  not  in  a  hurry  for  once,  but  curled 
up  on  the  hearth-rug  with  him,  telling  him  queer 
little  fairy-tales,  better  than  any  that  Bristles  could 
tell,  because  all  her  people  seemed  alive  and  spoke  in 

[22] 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

different  voices,  so  that  it  really  seemed  as  if  they 
were  in  the  room;  and  when  she  came  and  kneLt 
down  by  the  side  of  his  bed  with  her  arms  clasped 
about  him,  letting  him  ask  all  the  questions  he 
wanted  to  ask,  and  answering  them  in  a  voice  which 
sounded  like  music  in  his  ears  w^hen  at  last  he  could 
not  keep  his  eyes  open;  and  when  she  came  to  him 
in  wonderful  dresses,  all  white  and  shimmering,  like 
a  cloud  in  the  sky,  and  said :  "Do  you  think  I  look 
pretty  to-night,  my  Nick?"  and  bent  to  kiss  him 
so  that  he  could  take  deep  breaths  of  the  scent  in 
her  hair,  like  the  smell  of  the  flower-beds  in  the 
Park,  and  stroke  her  soft  white  arms,  and  whisper 
his  love  for  her.  Sometimes  at  these  times  there 
was  an  excited  light  in  her  eyes,  so  that  they  shone 
like  the  candles  on  each  side  of  his  mantelpiece, 
and  sometimes  she  would  swish  up  her  skirts  and 
dance  about  the  room  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  and 
sometimes  Bristles  would  come  in  and  stand  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  staring  at  her  with  a  queer 
smile,  until  she  sank  into  a  deep  curtsey  and  into 
the  waves  of  her  white  dress  before  him,  when  he 
would  hold  out  his  hand  and  raise  her  up,  and  kiss 
her  on  the  arm  as  she  danced  out  of  the  room.  Those 
were  scenes  which  Nick  cherished  in  his  heart,  and 
which  long  afterward  he  remembered  like  wonder- 
ful dreams. 

It  was  in  his  sixth  year  that  he  made  his  greatest 
discovery  about  Beauty. 

[23] 


/  BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

.  •'  It  was  made  in  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  build- 
'ing  a  giant's  castle  out  of  a  cardboard  box,  while 
Polly  was  ironing  handkerchiefs,  and  spitting  on  the 
hot  iron  so  that  it  made  that  splendid  sizzling  noise 
which  Nick  loved  to  hear.  It  was  between  one  of 
the  spits  that  she  gave  a  great  sigh  and  said  : 

'The  Lord  be  praised  /  ain't  a  hactress!" 

*'What  is  a  hactress?"  asked  Nick. 

"Your  mother  is  a  hactress,  my  poor  poppet," 
said  Polly. 

Nick  was  silent.  It  was  clear  to  him  from  Polly's 
tone  of  voice  that  a  hactress  was  a  very  awful  and 
horrid  thing. 

"Why  shouldn't  she  be  a  hactress?"  he  said,  put- 
ting himself  on  his  guard. 

''It's  what  no  good  woman  ought  to  be,  in  my 
opinion,"  said  Polly,  dabbing  down  the  iron  with  a 
bang. 

Nick  had  a  great  respect  for  Polly's  wisdom.  She 
could  do  many  things  which  neither  Bristles  nor 
Beauty  could  do.  She  could  bake  bread  and  make 
suet  puddings  with  plums  in  them,  and  sugar  mice 
with  currant  eyes.  She  knew  almost  everything 
there  was  to  be  known  about  grown-up  people,  cats, 
babies,  policemen,  beetles,  cutting  out  paper  figures, 
folding  paper  boats,  healing  burns  and  blisters,  get- 
ting good  luck  by  putting  on  a  stocking  inside  out, 
and  other  things  worth  knowing.     But  Nick  was 

[24} 


GREAT  DISCOVERIES 

not  going  to  allow  her  to  say  bad  things  about 
Beauty. 

*'If  you  say  my  mother  is  a  hactress,  I  will  kill 
you  dead,"  he  said. 

Polly  did  not  see  his  white  face  or  his  burning 
eyes.    She  was  busy  with  her  iron. 

"Nothing  I  can  say  can  alter  things,"  said  Polly, 
breathing  hard  over  her  iron.  "She's  a  hactress 
by  nature,  and  a  hactress  by  calling,  and  it*s  no  won- 
der your  father  is  getting  old  before  his  time,  poor 
dear." 

Nick  took  a  careful  aim  with  the  pair  of  scissors 
with  which  he  had  been  cutting  out  a  giant's  castle, 
and  threw  them  straight  at  Polly's  face. 

"Take  that,  and  dammitall!"  he  shouted,  and  he 
was  only  a  little  bit  sorry  when  Polly  gave  a  loud 
shriek,  dropi>ed  her  iron,  and  put  her  hand  up  to  a 
great  gash  in  her  cheek. 

Bristles  came  striding  into  the  kitchen. 

"What  on  earth's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

Polly  was  still  screaming,  and  her  face  was  dab- 
bled with  blood. 

"She  called  Beauty  a  hactress,"  said  Nick,  "and 
I  tried  to  kill  her." 

That  night  he  went  supperless  to  bed,  after  beg- 
ging Polly's  pardon  and  receiving  her  tearful  kisses, 
which  melted  all  the  rage  in  his  heart.  He  cried 
himself  to  sleep,  not  because  he  had  no  supper,  not 
because  he  had  been  forced  to  beg  Polly's  pardon 

[25] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

— which  was  frightfully  hurtful  to  his  pride — ^but 
because  Bristles  had  confirmed  the  awful  fact  that 
Beauty  was  a  "hactress,"  and  had  said,  beneath  his 
breath  but  not  so  quietly  that  Nick  had  not  heard 
the  words: 

"And  I  wish  to  God  she  wasn't !" 

Nick  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  this  awful 
thing  might  be,  but  he  was  sure  that  it  was  the 
worst  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  Beauty, 
and  was  a  shameful  secret  which  he  must  hide  from 
all  the  world. 


[26] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST. 

Nicholas  Barton,  when  he  became  something  of 
a  scholar,  divided  the  history  of  his  world  into 
certain  definite  stages:  B.  C.  and  A.  D.,  before 
the  Great  Fire  and  after  the  Great  Fire,  before  tlie 
coming  of  the  Beast  and  after  the  coming  of  the 
Beast. 

It  was  before  the  Beast  came  that  he  was  initiated 
into  some  of  the  mysteries  of  Beauty's  life  outside 
the  flat,  and  into  the  meaning  of  that  word  "hac- 
tress"  which  Polly  had  pronounced  as  a  thing  of- 
fensive to  her  nostrils. 

It  was  Bristles  who  gave  him  this  wonderful 
knowledge. 

"Look  here,  Nick,  my  son,"  he  said  on  a  certain 
historic  evening,  "would  you  like  to  come  to  the 
theatre  and  see  Beauty  in  all  her  glory?" 

Nick  was  drawing  pictures  of  Battersea  Park. 
They  were  his  private  pictures  which  nobody  could 
understand  but  himself.  But  there,  clear  enough  to 
his  eyes  was  the  old  tree  with  arms  that  tried  to 
reach  down  to  small  boys  but  were  not  quite  long 
enough,  and  the  Squirrel  which  was  always  hiding 
in  the  back  parlor  of  his  cage,  so  that  only  one 

[27] 


BEAUTY  AND  NI€K 

bright  eye  looked  out,  and  the  twin  old  gentleman 
owls,  and  the  one  old  lady  owl,  who  were  always 
taking  afternoon  naps,  even  in  the  morning,  when 
the  sun  was  shining,  and  there  was  the  lake,  with 
boats  full  of  boys  who  were  always  shouting  be- 
cause they  had  discovered  a  magic  island  where  tof- 
fee and  gingerbread  nuts  and  striped  bulls'  eyes 
grew  on  the  trees.  All  these  things  had  Nick  put 
down  in  pictures,  but  he  had  not  yet  drawn  the 
noise  of  the  shouting  boys,  nor  the  smell  of  the 
flowers  which  grew  by  the  side  of  the  lake,  when 
Bristles  asked  him  the  big  question. 

Nick  bit  the  end  of  his  pencil  thoughtfully,  and 
then  said: 

"What  is  a  theatre?" 

"It  is  a  place  where  people  pretend  to  be  other 
people,  like  you  and  I  pretend  to  be  bears.  They 
get  so  much  into  the  habit  of  pretending  that  half 
of  them  never  get  back  again  to  their  real  selves." 

Nick  stared  at  Bristles  in  alarm. 

"I  should  hate  that.  What  does  Beauty  pretend 
to  be?" 

"Well,  to-night  she  is  pretending  to  be  a  fairy 
princess  in  love  with  an  ass.  It's  rather  good  fun, 
old  man." 

"But  ladies  never  do  fall  in  bve  with  asses,  do 
they?"  asked  Nick. 

*'Oh,  often,"  said  Bristles,  who  was  putting  on 

[28] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

his  boots,  the  shiny  ones  in  which  Nick  could  see 
his  own  face. 

"It  would  be  awkward  if  Beauty  fell  in  love  with 
an  ass,  wouldn't  it?"  said  Nick. 

"Devilish  awkward." 

Bristles  gave  a  queer  laugh,  ending  In  a  queer 
sigh,  and  Nick  didn't  like  the  look  of  things.  It 
would  be  frightful  if  Beauty  got  so  much  into  the 
habit  of  pretending  that  she  couldn't  get  back  again 
to  her  real  self. 

But  he  accepted  the  invitation  to  the  theatre  be- 
cause of  his  desire  for  knowledge,  and  although  he 
yawned  once  or  twice  because  it  was  getting  near 
bed-time,  he  told  Bristles  that  he  had  sent  the  old 
dustman  off  with  a  flea  in  his  ear. 

Polly  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  when  she  helped 
him  to  dress  in  his  best  things. 

"Shameful,  I  call  it,  keeping  a  child  out  of  his 
bed.  And  the  theayter  is  no  place  for  my  poor 
innocent  poppet.  It  all  comes  of  having  a  hactress 
for  a  mother." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  the  word  since 
Nick's  attack  with  the  scissors,  and,  as  she  said 
afterward  to  the  servant  in  the  next  flat,  she  could 
have  bitten  her  tongue  off  for  having  mentioned  it 
again.  But  Nick  had  made  one  of  his  great  discov- 
eries.    It  came  to  him  in  a  flash. 

"Is  a  hactress  a  lady  that  pretends  to  be  what 
she  isn't,  and  can't  get  back  to  her  real  self?" 
[29] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

''Lord  save  the  child!  And  how  did  you  know 
that?"  asked  Polly,  startled  out  of  her  wits  by  such 
precocious  wisdom. 

Nick  did  not  answer.  So  that  was  the  meaning 
of  the  word!  This  new  knowledge  cast  a  gloom 
over  his  spirit.  It  hurt  him  to  think  that  Beauty 
might  have  been  pretending  to  him  all  the  time. 
Perhaps  he  had  never  known  the  true  self  of  her. 
He  must  try  to  find  it  out.  He  would  watch  and 
try  to  catch  her  unawares,  just  as  he  had  caught 
the  Squirrel  once  when  it  thought  that  nobody  was 
looking.  It  was  quite  a  different  squirrel  to  the 
one  he  had  imagined  when  he  had  only  seen  its 
bright  eye  peeping  out  from  the  back  parlor  of  its 
cage. 

On  the  journey  to  the  theatre  with  Bristles  in  a 
hansom  cab  he  sat  very  quiet,  drinking  in  all  the 
new  impressions  of  this  great  adventure  in  the  night. 
All  the  lamps  were  alive,  thousands  of  them,  like 
shining  flowers  that  came  dancing  past  the  window 
of  the  cab.  And  all  the  buildings  were  like  fairy 
palaces,  so  white  in  the  glow  of  the  night  lights, 
so  terribly  black  where  the  shadows  made  their  hid- 
ing places.  The  world  was  full  of  music,  full  of 
little  tinkling  bells,  like  those  on  the  cab  horse, 
playing  thousands  of  jig  tunes,  while  lots  of  small 
boys,  whom  he  could  not  see  in  the  darkness,  were 
blowing  on  whistles.  All  the  world  was  going  to 
the  theatre  in  cabs  and  carriages,  and  the  noise  of 

[30] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

the  wheels  made  a  rushing  sound  like  water  turned 
on  from  bath-room  taps.  He  stared  out  at  shadow 
people  passing  along  the  streets.  All  their  bodies 
were  black,  but  their  faces  were  white  like  ghosts, 
and  they  went  by  quietly,  as  though  creeping  on 
tip-toe.  He  looked  up  into  the  sky,  and  gave  a  little 
shiver  of  excitement,  for  there,  so  close  above  the 
cab  in  front  of  them  that  the  driver  could  almost 
touch  it  with  his  whip,  was  the  old  man  in  the  moon, 
smiling  down  as  though  seeing  a  great  joke  in  the 
world,  and  not  far  away  from  him  was  a  tiny  star, 
winking  its  eye. 

''Bristles,"  said  Nick,  with  a  quiver  in  his  voice, 
''why  does  the  moon  smile?  Do  you  know  the 
joke?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bristles,  "but  it  is  a  bad  joke.  You 
are  too  young  for  me  to  tell  you." 

"When  shall  I  be  old  enough  to  know?" 

Nick  knew  that  there  were  some  jokes  for  which 
he  would  have  to  wait,  all  those  jokes  at  which 
grown-up  people  laugh,  but  which  do  not  seem  a 
bit  funny  to  small  boys. 

Bristles  put  his  arm  round  Nick,  and  pressed  him 
closer  to  his  side. 

"When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  Nick.  Everybody 
finds  out  the  joke  then,  worse  luck !" 

At  the  theatre  Nick  felt  very  small  as,  holding 
on  hard  to  Bristles,  he  walked  between  some  marble 
pillars  into  an  enormous  place  crowded  with  men 

[31] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

with  holes  in  their  waistcoats  so  that  their  shirts 
showed  through,  and  with  women  who  had  bare 
arms  and  necks,  and  dresses  hke  the  best  flower  beds 
in  Battersea  Park.  Bristles  passed  through  the 
crowd,  nodding  to  one  or  two  people,  and  saying 
good  evening  to  a  gentleman  in  a  white  wig,  a 
purple  coat  and  breeches,  and  white  silk  stockings, 
whom  Nick  knew,  without  being  told,  to  be  the 
owner  of  the  theatre,  and  an  immensely  rich  man. 
Then  Bristles  went  down  a  long  corridor  where  two 
or  three  women  like  Polly,  only  not  so  ugly,  said 
''Good  evening,  sir,'*  and  grinned  in  an  aggressive 
way  at  Nick,  and  finally  opened  a  door  which  led 
into  a  little  room  where  there  was  a  big  window 
without  glass,  with  a  balcony  outside,  looking  into 
a  vast  hall  full  of  velvet  chairs  and  white  faces  and 
Httle  twinkling  lights. 

"Is  this  the  theatre?"  asked  Nick. 

"Yes.  Take  off  your  coat,  and  make  yourself 
at  home." 

"Where's  Beauty?"  asked  Nick. 

"Oh,  you  will  see  her  presently." 

Nick  took  off  his  coat,  and  Bristles  hung  it  on 
to  a  peg  absurdly  high  above  a  small  boy's  head. 
Then  Nick  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  open  window, 
and  tried  to  find  Beauty.  There  were  thousands 
of  faces  just  like  he  sometimes  saw  them  in  dreams, 
high  up  and  low  down,  all  exactly  the  same,  unless 
he  stared  at  them  hard  and  noticed  the  differences, 

[32] 


THE  COxMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

and  all  with  shining  eyes.  He  could  not  see  Beauty 
among  them,  though  he  looked  ever  so  hard.  Down 
below  in  the  great  cavern  of  the  hall  was  another 
crowd  of  people,  but  he  could  not  see  their  faces  so 
well,  only  their  heads,  and  to  his  surprise  he  noticed 
that  most  of  the  men  had  taken  their  hair  off,  so 
that  their  naked  heads  looked  like  big  birds'  eggs. 
Then  he  saw  a  lot  of  wild  people  in  a  cage.  Only 
one  or  two  of  them  had  taken  their  hair  off.  The 
others  had  long  hair,  like  the  manes  of  lions. 

"Are  they  savages?"  he  asked,  and  Bristles,  fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  his  pointed  finger,  laughed 
a  great  deal,  as  though  it  was  a  joke,  and  said : 

"Well,  they  are  rather  fierce." 

But  they  seemed  to  be  tamed  by  a  man  who  sat 
in  a  high  seat  waving  a  stick  at  them.  After  three 
taps  of  his  stick  they  took  up  queer-looking  instru- 
ments, and  played  queer  music  which  sounded  at 
first  like  the  roaring  of  wild  beasts,  and  then  changed 
and  became  very  soft,  like  the  singing  of  the  birds 
in  Battersea  Park  after  the  shadows  had  crept  down 
from  the  trees,  and  then  changed  again,  so  that 
thousands  of  notes  tripped  over  one  another,  like 
the  leaves  blown  along  a  path  on  a  gusty  day,  all 
singing  as  they  scurried  along. 

Presently,  at  the  end  of  the  great  hall  nearest 
to  Nick,  a  curtain  which  everybody  had  been  star- 
ing at,  rolled  up  in  an  invisible  way,  and  at  the 
same  time  nearly  all  the  lights  in  the  great  hall 

[33] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

suddenly  died,  so  that  the  people's  faces  could  only 
be  seen  through  the  black  fog  of  darkness,  more  like 
a  dream  than  ever,  but  here  and  there  a  light  still  re- 
mained alive,  just  like  a  watchful  eye  staring  through 
the  blackness.  But  now  beneath  the  rolled-up  cur- 
tain there  was  a  little  world  of  light,  just  like  Bat- 
tersea  Park  on  a  summer  day,  only  more  real, 
because  the  fairies  which  Nick  could  only  see  in 
Battersea  Park  when  he  shut  his  eyes,  were  here 
frisking  about  among  the  trees,  even  when  he  kept 
his  eyes  open,  and  there  was  one  of  them  called 
Puck  whom  he  recognized  at  once  as  a  fellow  he 
had  met  in  a  fairy  tale.  He  wore  exactly  the  same 
grin,  and  made  the  same  funny  jokes  which  you 
could  not  quite  understand,  but  laughed  at  all  the 
same. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  the  theatre  was  fairy- 
land?" said  Nick,  speaking  to  Bristles  in  a  loud 
voice. 

"Hush!"  said  Bristles,  "you  mustn't  talk  till  the 
curtain  goes  down,  old  man." 

So  Nick  sat  very  mum,  but  a  little  later  he  nearly 
jumped  out  of  his  seat,  for  there,  coming  from 
behind  a  tree,  was  Beauty,  his  Beauty,  dressed  up 
like  a  fairy  and  followed  by  a  lot  of  little  fairies. 
He  was  so  excited  that  he  forgot  all  about  not 
speaking,  and  leaning  over  the  balcony,  cried  out 
in  a  high  voice: 

"Hullo,  Beauty!— Beauty!" 
[34] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

Bristles  grabbed  him  by  the  waistcoat,  and  hauled 
him  back  into  his  chair,  but  not  before  Beauty  had 
looked  up  and  smiled  at  him,  and  not  before  there 
came  a  great  flutter  of  laughter  from  the  darkness, 
as  though  a  laughing  wind  had  blown  across  all 
the  white  faces. 

For  a  long  time  Nick  sat  as  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
watching  all  the  people  of  fairyland,  who  were  do- 
ing queer  things  which  he  could  not  understand, 
and  saying  things  which  meant  nothing  to  him, 
while  he  watched  with  grave  eyes,  and  listened  with 
straining  ears.  Then,  presently,  he  felt  himself  get- 
ting very  excited.  Some  big  Fear  was  trying  to  get 
inside  his  head.  It  was  when  everybody  was  laugh- 
ing because  a  fat  man  like  one  of  the  gardeners  in 
Battersea  Park  was  being  changed  into  an  ass. 
Nick  could  not  see  anything  to  laugh  at.  It  seemed 
to  him  very  cruel  to  change  a  man  into  an  ass.  He 
began  to  hate  Puck  for  playing  such  a  trick.  But 
that  was  not  the  reason  why  Fear  was  trying  to 
get  into  his  head.  It  was  because  of  Beauty.  It 
was  because  Beauty  was  falling  in  love  with  the  ass. 
He  wanted  to  warn  her.  It  was  frightfully  danger- 
ous. She  might  never  get  back  to  be  herself  again. 
It  was  beastly  to  see  the  way  she  stroked  the  ass, 
and  cuddled  him,  and  kissed  his  ugly  nose.  Sup- 
posing she  went  on  loving  the  ass?  What  would 
happen  to  Bristles  and  Polly  and  him?  He  could 
not  bear  it.     He  felt  that  Something  was  going  to 

[35] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

burst  in  his  head,  and  that  all  the  water  in  his 
heart  was  ready  to  rush  out  of  his  eyes.  He  sud- 
denly shouted  out  again: 

"Beauty,  you  mustn't  love  the  ass!  Please  don't 
love  the  ass!" 

Once  again  there  came  the  noise  of  a  laughing 
wind  blowing  gustily  over  the  white  faces.  But 
Nick  did  not  hear  the  wind.  He  was  sobbing  bit- 
terly against  the  white  shirt  through  the  hole  in 
Bristles'  waistcoat.  Bristles  kept  on  saying  "Hush, 
old  man,"  and  carried  him  down  the  long  corridor, 
and  then  went  home  again  with  him  in  a  hansom  cab. 
But  long  before  they  had  reached  Battersea  Park 
Nick  was  asleep,  with  his  head  against  the  white 
shirt-front,  which  was  all  stained  with  his  tears. 

Nick  was  never  quite  sure  what  things  happened 
between  this  visit  to  the  theatre  and  the  coming  of 
the  Beast,  because  he  could  not  keep  count  of  the 
days,  and  things  had  a  habit  of  getting  muddled  in 
his  mind  just  like  his  toys  got  muddled  in  the  cup- 
board— all  heads  and  arms  and  legs  mixed  up  to- 
gether— so  that  it  was  difficult  to  sort  them  out 
again.  But  some  time  passed,  with  its  days  of  new 
discovery  and  its  nights  of  new  dreams,  before  that 
one  day  when  he  was  called  out  of  the  kitchen  to 
come  and  be  polite  in  the  drawing-room. 

He  did  not  want  to  go  in  the  very  least,  for  he 
hated  being  polite,  and  he  was  quite  happy  in  the 
kitchen  with  Polly,  to  whom  he  could  talk  just  as 
[36] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

he  liked,  or  with  whom  he  could  be  silent  Vs^heii  he 
liked,  and  who,  at  this  time  of  his  life,  was  his  best 
and  most  faithful  friend.  For  he  had  trained  her 
up  in  the  way  she  should  go,  and  by  this  time  she  had 
learned  that  she  was  not  to  laugh  at  him  when  he 
made  discoveries,  and  that  she  must  not  tell  him 
wrong  things  when  he  asked  straight  questions,  and 
that  he  was  quite  to  be  trusted  in  front  of  the 
kitchen  fire,  with  the  rolling  pin,  the  flat  Iron  (in 
its  cold  moods),  the  coffee  grinder,  the  mangle,  and 
other  things  which  he  preferred  to  his  own  toys 
because  they  were  more  real  and  more  useful.  When 
he  was  called  from  the  kitchen  on  this  day,  he  was 
just  making  a  private  loaf  for  himself  out  of  a 
piece  of  dough  left  over  from  a  rabbit  pie,  now  bak- 
ing in  the  oven,  and  he  had  just  stuck  the  top  on 
with  a  French  nail  (because  it  would  keep  wobbling 
off).  It  was  therefore  most  annoying  that  he  should 
be  summoned  to  make  himself  tidy  and  go  to  shake 
hands  with  a  visitor. 

"It's  absurd,"  said  Nick,  "I  don't  want  to  shake 
hands  with  the  visitor,  and  I  can't  see  why  the  visi- 
tor wants  to  shake  hands  with  me." 

"Oh,  there  are  lots  of  things  you  can't  see  just 
yet,"  said  Polly.  "Do  as  you're  told,  is  the  motto 
for  small  boys.  Blest  if  it  ain't  the  motto  for  grown- 
ups, too.  I  have  to  do  as  I'm  jolly  well  told.  Master 
Nick." 

"Yes,  but  you're  a  servant,"  said  Nick.     "You're 

[37] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

paid  for  it.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  do  as  I'm 
told  without  being  paid  for  it." 

''You'll  get  paid  if  you  don't,  my  poppet!"  said 
Polly,  and  Nick  knew  that  she  meant  just  the  oppo- 
site, which  was  a  way  she  had. 

So  Nick  rubbed  the  flour  off  his  waistcoat  with 
the  kitchen  table-cloth,  squirted  some  water  onto 
his  hands  from  the  tap  in  the  sink,  wiped  them  with 
a  duster,  smoothed  down  his  hair  with  a  boot-brush 
in  the  scullery — Polly  was  busy  with  a  pudding — 
and  presented  himself  in  the  drawing-room.  That 
is  to  say,  he  opened  the  door  very  softly,  got  down 
upon  his  hands  and  knees,  and  crept  under  the  gate- 
legged table,  from  which  hiding  place  he  could 
reconnoitre  the  visitor  before  making  himself  polite. 

It  was  then  for  the  first  time  that  he  saw  the 
Beast. 

He  called  him  that  instantly,  in  his  own  head,  be- 
cause there  was  something  beast-like  about  the  man 
who  sat  smiling  at  Beauty  from  the  peacock  arm- 
chair. He  had  a  soft,  pointed  brown  beard,  and  a 
fluffy  brown  mustache,  which  seemed  very  beastly  to 
Nick,  who  was  accustomed  to  men  with  bald  faces, 
like  Bristles,  who  cut  the  stubble  off  his  chin  every 
morning  as  soon  as  it  began  to  sprout  above  the  soil. 
He  had  brown  eyes,  which  smiled  and  smiled,  like 
a  yellow  tiger  at  the  Zoo,  and  when  he  smiled  and 
smiled  he  showed  two  rows  of  very  sharp  white 
teeth,  just  like  the  yellow  tigers  teeth,  though  not 

[38] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

so  big.  And  he  wore  a  brown  velvet  coat,  which, 
when  Nick  ever  touched  it,  after  this  first  meeting, 
made  his  blood  run  cold  in  a  horrible  way.  He 
hated  the  Beast  from  the  very  first  time  he  ever 
set  eyes  on  him. 

"Nick,  dearest,"  said  Beauty,  "come  and  say  how- 
do-you-do  to  Mr.  Danvers." 

"I  will  say  it  here,"  said  Nick,  and  from  beneath 
the  table  he  said,  very  politely,  "How-do-you-do?" 

The  Beast  laughed.  It  was  a  quiet,  oily  laugh. 
But  he  spoke  words  which  made  Nick  quite  sure  he 
hated  him. 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  spoiled  the  boy,  Mrs.  Bar- 
ton." 

"Nothing  could  spoil  him,"  said  Beauty,  and  then 
clapped  her  hands.  "Come  out  from  the  table, 
Nick." 

But  Nick  did  not  budge.  He  made  up  his  mind 
not  to  budge  on  any  account  for  such  a  beastly  kind 
of  Beast. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Nick?" 

But  Nick  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  so  that  he 
could  not  hear. 

It  was  then  that  something  happened,  something 
inconceivable  to  Nick.  His  leg  was  grasped  as  in  a 
vice  by  a  long  white  hand.  An  enormous  force  was 
tugging  at  him.  Though  he  clutched  at  the  carpet, 
the  great  force  was  stronger  than  all  his  strength 
and  with  a  sudden  jerk  he  was  lifted  right  out  from 

[39] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

beneath  the  table,  and  set  down  on  his  legs  in  front 
of  the  smiling  man  with  the  soft  brown  beard. 

"Small  boys  must  not  disobey  their  lady 
mothers,"  said  the  man,  smiling  so  that  he  showed 
all  his  teeth  again.  "Now  will  you  say  how-do-you- 
do  like  a  little  gentleman?" 

But  Nick  did"  not  say  how-do-you-do  like  a  little 
gentleman.  He  looked  at  Beauty,  whose  eyes  were 
rather  troubled,  and  whose  face  had  put  on  its  flam- 
ing poppy-color.  Then  he  looked  at  the  bearded 
man,  straight  into  his  smiling  eyes.  The  Something 
that  lurked  deep  down  in  Nick's  heart  leaped  up  into 
his  head,  just  as  it  had  leaped  up  when  he  threw  the 
scissors  at  Polly's  face.  But  he  did  not  throw  any- 
thing at  the  visitor.  There  was  nothing  in  his  hands 
to  throw.  He  just  stared  at  him  ever  so  quietly, 
and  then  said  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  rush  out  of 
his  throat : 

"You— Beast!" 

Then  he  turned  round  and  walked  very  slowly  out 
of  the  room,  while  something  went  buzzing  in  his 
ears,  so  that  he  did  not  hear  the  bearded  man's  quiet 
laugh,  nor  Beauty's  cry  of  anger. 

The  time  came  when  Nick  had  to  say  "How-do- 
you-do"  to  Mr.  Reginald  Danvers  (whom  he  only 
called  the  Beast  in  private,  to  Peter  Rabbit,  the  Squir- 
rel, the  Red  Engine,  and  the  hassock  with  two  ears, 
after  his  first  public  announcement  of  the  name), 
several  times  a  week.  For  Mr.  Danvers  came 
[40] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

to  Beauty's  flat,  high  up  in  the  sky,  on  many  after- 
noons a  week,  and  when  he  did  not  come  to  the  flat, 
he  came  somewhere  else,  wherever  Beauty  happened 
to  be.  He  turned  up  in  the  most  surprising  places, 
and  always  so  quietly  and  unexpectedly,  that  Nick 
believed  he  must  carry  a  magic  carpet  about  with 
him,  so  that  he  could  wish  himself  in  the  right 
place.  Sometimes  he  would  turn  up  round  about 
the  Owl-house  in  Battersea  Park,  and  if  Beauty  had 
gone  there  for  a  walk  with  Nick,  which  she  never 
used  to  do  before  the  coming  of  the  Beast,  and 
sometimes  Nick  would  see  his  smile  and  his  brown 
beard  coming  across  the  rustic  bridge  over  the  lake 
(above  the  big  stones  where  the  water  rats  bob  in 
and  out),  and  sometimes  he  would  be  sitting  with 
his  brown  felt  hat  at  the  back  of  his  head,  smiling 
into  the  face  of  the  sun,  opposite  the  ducks'  feeding 
place.  He  also  seemed  surprised  to  see  Beauty,  and 
always  said  the  same  thing: 

*'Now  who  would  have  thought  of  meeting  you ! 
What  a  stroke  of  luck !" 

And  he  always  patted  Nick  on  the  shoulder,  and 
said,  "Well,  little  man,  and  how  are  you?"  but  never 
waited  for  an  answer,  because  he  was  in  such  a  hurry 
to  talk  to  Beauty. 

Nick  noticed  that  Beauty's  face  was  sometimes 
like  a  flaming  poppy  when  she  met  Danvers,  and 
that  afterward  there  was  a  queer  shining  light  in 
her  eyes,  and  that  she  forgot  all  about  Nick  himself 

[41] 


0 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 


as  long  as  Danvers  was  with  her.  Afterward,  as 
though  she  was  sorry  for  having  forgotten  him  such 
a  lot,  she  would  hug  him  tight  to  her,  and  kiss 
him  quite  a  number  of  times,  and  lean  her  forehead 
up  against  his  face,  as  though  to  make  sure  she 
should  not  forget  him  again. 

Danvers  knew  that  Nick  hated  him,  and  Nick 
knew  that  he  knew.  But  Danvers  was  always  try- 
ing to  make  Nick  like  him,  and  Nick  hated  him  for 
that  worse  than  ever.  He  used  to  bring  boxes  of 
sweets  out  of  the  pockets  of  his  velvet  coat,  and  say : 
"Here's  something  for  you,  little  man."  And  some- 
times he  would  stop  in  front  of  a  toy  shop  and  wave 
his  stick  at  the  window  and  say :  "Do  you  see  any- 
thing you  want,  Nick,  my  lad?*' 

Of  course  there,  were  heaps  of  things  which  Nick 
wanted,  but  when  the  Beast  asked  him  he  shook 
his  head  and  said:  "No,  thanks,"  so  that  Danvers 
was  surprised,  and  laughed  with  a  bad  sound  in  his 
throat.  But  he  had  to  take  the  Rocking  Horse.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  take  it,  because  it  came  in  at 
the  front  door  on  the  shoulders  of  a  man  who  puffed 
and  panted  and  said:  "Them  steps  is  the  very 
devil,"  and  dumped  down  the  big  parcel  from  which 
a  tail  stuck  out  at  one  end,  and  a  horse's  nose  at  the 
other. 

"Goodness  alive,  what's  this?"  cried  Polly. 

Even  Beauty  came  out  of  her  bedroom  in  her  dress- 

[42] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST         ^ 

ing*gown  at  the  noise  of  the  parcel  being  dumped  hi 
the  hall. 

"Why,  it's  a  Rocking  Horse!"  said  Beauty. 
"Whoever  can  have  sent  it?" 

Polly  solved  the  mystery  by  peering  at  a  label  tied 
to  the  horse's  neck. 

"To  Nick,  from  Mr.  Danvers." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Beauty,  and  she  went  back  into 
her  bedroom  rather  quickly. 

"Oh,  it's  from  the  Beast!"  said  Nick.  The  words 
slipped  out  of  his  mouth  before  he  could  swallow 
them,  but  fortunately  Polly  didn't  hear,  as  she  was 
busy  unwrapping  the  brown  paper.  Certainly  it 
was  a  magnificent  horse,  with  a  bushy  white  tail 
and  a  curly  white  mane,  and  a  laughing  eye  on 
each  side  of  its  head,  and  fiery  nostrils  to  show  that 
it  had  a  proud  spirit,  and  reins  fastened  on  by  gold- 
headed  nails. 

Nick  gazed  at  it  with  reverence  and  admiration, 
but  something  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat  like  a 
fish-bone.  He  was  quite  silent  while  Polly  showed 
her  delight  by  a  series  of  exclamations,  such  as: 
"Well,  I  never  did!"  "Upon  my  word!"  and  "Who 
would  have  thought  it  now?"  Then  suddenly  she 
noticed  Nick's  lack  of  enthusiasm,  and  said: 

"Eh,  but  don't  you  like  it,  Master  Nick?" 

"It's  splendid,'*  said  Nick,  "but  somehow  I  haven't 
begun  to  love  it  yet." 

He  loved  it  tremendously  by  the  time  he  went  to 
[43] 


,.;^  BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

bed,  but  as  he  la}^  back  on  his  pillow  so  that  he 
could  see  Robin's  white  mane  (he  called  it  Robin 
because  it  had  a  red  breast),  like  a  cloud  blown  back 
by  the  wind,  and  one  of  his  laughing  eyes  gleaming 
in  the  rays  of  the  night  light,  he  gave  a  deep  sigh 
and  said: 

"I  am  sorry  the  Beast  gave  you  to  me,  Robin 
dear.     But  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped." 

Nick  supposed  it  couldn't  be  helped  that  the  Beast 
came  such  a  lot  to  see  Beauty.  And  he  supposed 
also  that  it  couldn't  be  helped  that  the  Beast  played 
the  piano  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world — 
though  he  was  a  Beast. 

It  was  Beauty  who  said  that  he  played  better  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  Nick  knew  that  she 
spoke  the  truth.  Because  sometimes  when  the  Beast 
played,  it  seemed  to  Nick  that  his  own  soul  had 
jumped  clean  out  of  his  body  and  that  it  went  on 
strange  and  wonderful  adventures,  farther  into  the 
mystery  places  than  he  had  ever  been  before.  There 
were  great  chords,  like  enormous  thunder,  as  though 
the  sky  had  burst  and  then  there  were  thousands  of 
little  pattering  notes  like  all  the  rain-drops  in  the 
sky  chasing  each  other,  and  singing  little  songs  to 
each  other,  and  dancing  round  and  round  each  other. 
And  sometimes  the  Beast  played  so  softly  and  so 
sweetly  that  it  was  like  the  voice  of  Beauty  just 
before  he  went  to  sleep,  humming  a  little  tune  to 
him  full  of  mother  love. 

[44] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

Beauty  must  have  guessed  that,  for  when  the 
Beast  played  these  tunes  she  sat  very  still,  with  a 
funny  little  smile  round  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  like 
flowers  with  the  dew  in  them.  There  were  other 
tunes  he  played  which  seemed  to  frighten  Beauty, 
for  they  made  the  color  come  ebbing  into  her  face, 
and  once  she  cried  out  sharply : 

"Don't!     That's  wicked  music!" 

"Why  wicked?"  asked  Danvers,  twisting  round 
on  his  music  stool.  "It  is  the  music  of  the  loving 
heart.    Hark,  how  pleading  it  is,  how  passionate!" 

At  times  he  played  so  sadly  that  Nick  seemed  to 
hear  a  strange  wailing,  like  that  of  lost  boys  crying 
to  be  found,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  sad  to  Beauty 
too,  for  her  eyelashes  were  wet,  and  she  said : 

"It  is  like  the  cry  of  a  broken  heart.  I  hate  it 
when  you  play  like  that" 

But  he  could  play  tunes  which  made  Nick  laugh 
in  spite  of  himself,  tunes  full  of  jokes  which  he  could 
not  quite  catch  before  they  had  gone,  but  which 
were  enormously  comical.  And  one  afternoon,  when 
he  sat  playing  there,  he  twiddled  a  little  in  the 
treble  notes,  and  turned  hi?  head  round  so  that  he 
could  see  into  Beauty',  eyes,  and  said  through  his 
soft  beard,  very  ^ttly : 

"Dance  to  hie!" 

Beauty  shook  her  head. 

He  played  a  few  more  twiddly  notes  in  the  treble, 
[45] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

and  looked  into  Beauty's  eyes  again,  and  said  once 
more : 

"Dance  to  me  !'* 

Beauty  said:  "I  will  not  dance  to  you!"  but 
Danvers  suddenly  struck  a  sharp  chord,  and  then 
played  a  strange  dance  tune  like  a  tip-toe  dance, 
very  light  and  swaying,  and  Nick,  who  was  watch- 
ing Beauty,  saw  the  color  rise  from  her  throat  into 
her  face,  and  a  queer  glint  of  light  come  into  her 
eyes,  and  though  she  still  clasped  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  she  half  rpse  from  her  seat. 

"Dance  to  me !"  said  Danvers  across  his  shoulder. 

The  dance  tune  seemed  to  have  a  spell  in  it,  like 
one  of  the  witch's  spells  in  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales, 
and  it  caught  hold  of  Beauty  so  that  she  unclasped 
her  arms  from  the  chair,  and  stood  very  straight, 
and  then  moved  forward,  swaying  like  the  music 
swayed,  with  a  queer,  half -frightened  smile  on  her 
face.  Then  she  rose  onto  tip-toes,  and  to  each  little 
note  her  feet  seemed  to  trip  in  little  steps,  and  her 
arms,  which  were  outstretched,  shook  a  little  and 
quivered  to  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Presently  she 
took  up  her  white  skir*^^  and  danced  more  quickly, 
and  her  body  writhed  like  c  ^nake,  and  as  the  music 
changed,  her  face  and  body  cha;.;^ed,  and  shof  be- 
came rather  mad,  and  there  was  a  st\ange  light  in 
her .  eyes,  and  she  snapped  her  finge'^s  with  little 
dicks,  like  the  crack  of  a  whip,  she  p|uckcd  a  rose 
from  her  hair,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  akid  let  it  fall, 

[46] 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  BEAST 

and  as  the  music  played  on,  she  seemed  to  make 
love  to  the  fallen  rose,  and  swayed  about  it,  bending 
to  it,  and  then  recoiling  from  it  and  shuddering  back 
from  it,  as  though  it  had  changed  into  some  ugly 
toad.  All  the  time  Danvers  watched  her  over  his 
shoulder  with  a  smile  half  hidden  by  his  soft  beard, 
until  at  last  he  crashed  out  a  final  chord,  and  before 
the  sound  of  it  was  silent  Beauty  half  fell  onto  the 
sofa,  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  weeping. 

Danvers  was  frightened.  He  leaned  over  Beauty 
and  said: 

"Hush,  little  woman,  it's  all  right.  I  am  sorry 
it  got  into  your  blood  like  that." 

"You  bring  out  all  my  beastliness!"  said  Beauty. 

Nick  heard  the  words,  and  wondered  at  them,  and 
cried  because  Beauty  was  crying.  That  made  her 
sit  up,  and  she  said :  "Nick !  I  forgot  you  were 
here.  It's  all  right,  mannikin.  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  Beauty." 

She  laughed  quite  loudly,  and  then  seemed  a  little 
frightened  again. 

^  "Don't  tell  Bristles,  Nick,"  she  said.  "Promise 
me  you  won*t  tell.     Promise  me,  Nick." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Danvers. 

"Promise  me,  Nick." 

She  was  down  on  her  knees  before  him,  clasping 
the  boy  with  both  hands. 

Nick  promised  not  to  tell  Bristles,  but  it  was  a 
promise  which  put  a  pain  into  his  heart. 

[47] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Why  shouldn't  he  tell  Bristles?  Didn't  Beauty 
belong  to  Bristles,  and  didn't  Bristles  belong  te 
Beauty?  Didn't  they  share  each  other's  secrets? 
.  He  could  not  understand,  but  from  that 
time  he  hated  the  Beast  more  than  he  had  ever 
hated  him. 


[48] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

Of  course  there  were  other  people  in  the  world 
which  centred  round  Nicholas  Barton  besides  those 
who  inhabited  or  visited  the  small  ftat,  hi^  up  in 
the  sky,  which  looked  down  to  the  trees  in  Battersea 
Park. 

As  the  days  of  the  years  of  his  life  stole  past 
so  quietly  that  they  seemed  to  walk  on  tip-toe,  Nich- 
olas came  to  know  many  people  by  sight,  and  many 
by  heart.  Because  the  flat  which  he  used  to  call 
his  "hole  in  the  wall,"  until  he  knew  the  proper 
name  for  it,  was  in  a  most  excellent  position  for 
learning  all  about  the  world  on  the  sunny  side  of 
•Battersea  Park  in  the  enormously  long  street  where 
blocks  of  mansions  had  grown  higher  than  the  high- 
est tree  in  front  of  them,  so  that  the  clouds  almost 
touched  the  chimney-pots  on  their  flat  roofs. 

There  was  an  iron  balcony  outside  Nick's  flat, 
with  iron  railings  through  which,  with  a  little  squeez- 
ing, he  could  put  his  nose  and  both  his  eyes  and 
about  half  his  head,  so  that  he  could  get  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  all  the  balconies  below  him,  and  each 
side  of  him,  and  of  all  the  funny  things  which  hap- 
pened there.     Lots  of  funny  things  happened,  and 

[49] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

lots  of  funny  people  came  through  the  windows  on 
to  their  balconies,  or  out  of  the  front  doors  into  the 
street.  This  comedy  of  life  began  at  about  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  Nick  and  Bristles  used 
to  come  out  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  before 
breakfast.  (That  was  an  idea  belonging  to  Bristles, 
who  used  to  come  on  to  the  balcony,  stare  across 
the  tree-tops  in  the  Park,  and  take  enormous  gulps 
of  air,  as  if  he  were  drinking  it.)  Other  people 
came  on  to  their  balconies.  One  of  them  was  a 
young  man  in  pink  pyjamas,  who  seemed  eager  to 
know  how  tall  his  nasturtiums  had  grown  in  the 
night,  and  who  used  to  talk  to  an  invisible  lady 
through  the  window  while  he  examined  his  plants. 
Sometimes  she  became  visible  for  a  few  moments, 
in  a  blue  dressing-gown,  and  then  would  dart  back 
again  if  she  thought  anybody  were  looking.  After 
breakfast  she  would  become  visible  in  a  linen  dress, 
the  color  of  light  brown  paper,  so  that  she  might 
kiss  her  hand  to  the  young  man  (who  had  taken  off 
his  pyjamas  and  put  on  black  clothes  and  a  chimney- 
pot hat)  as  he  came  out  into  the  street 
in  a  tearing  hurry.  Nick  noticed  that  for 
some  weeks  the  lady  was  altogether  invisible 
and  the  young  man  never  turned  back  In 
his  tearing  hurry  to  look  up  at  her  balcony. 
But  she  became  visible  again  a  little  while  after 
the  morning  when  the  young  man  found  a  bald- 
headed  baby  in  one  of  his  flower-pots.     At  least, 

[50] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

Bristles  thought  he  must  have  found  it  there,  and 
said  he  was  a  kicky  beggar,  and  he  had  half  a  mind 
to  grow  nasturtiums  himself.  After  that  the  young 
man  and  the  bald-headed  baby  were  always  having 
jokes  together,  and  Nick  used  to  listen  to  all  the 
chuckling  and  gurgling  and  crowing  and  laughing 
which  used  to  come  up  from  that  balcony. 

He  also  knew  the  Giant  with  the  wee  wife  (that 
was  what  Bristles  called  them)  who  lived  in  the 
balcony  next  but  one.  The  Giant  was  so  big,  and 
wore  such  a  big-brimmed  hat  and  such  a  big  cloak 
over  his  big  clothes  that  he  seemed  to  fill  up  the  whole 
balcony  when  he  sat  there  in  a  cane  chair — with  the 
wee  wife  quite  hidden  by  him — writing  tremendous 
long  letters  to  some  one  Nick  did  not  know.  He 
was  always  writing  these  long,  long  letters,  and  he 
seemed  to  make  jokes  in  them,  for  sometimes  he 
would  stop  and  laugh  loudly,  with  a  Giant's  laugh, 
and  then  dash  over  the  paper  with  a  fat  pencil,  as 
though  to  catch  up  to  another  joke.  Every  morn- 
ing at  ten  o'clock  a  hansom  cab  came  below  the 
balcony  wath  jingling  bells,  and  the  Giant  would 
come  out  into  the  street  with  his  wee  wife  walking 
behind  him,  and  get  into  the  cab  first,  because  (as 
Bristles  said),  if  he  had  got  in  second,  his  wee  wife 
would  have  had  her  wee  life  squashed  out  of  her. 
The  old,  old  cab-horse — he  was  at  least  a  hundred 
years  old — used  to  stagger  in  the  shafts,  and  the 
cab  would  rock  backward — as  though  an  earthquake 

[51] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

had  happened,  and  the  old,  old  cabman — he  was  at 
least  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  old — used  to  shout 
"^'Gee-up !"  And  so  the  Giant  and  his  wee  wife  would 
drive  off  to  one  of  the  mystery  places. 

Then  there  were  all  the  mothers  of  all  the  bald- 
headed  babies  who  had  been  found  in  the  flower-pots 
on  the  balconies,  and  all  the  nurses  bought  by  the 
mothers  to  look  after  the  bald-headed  babies,  and 
all  the  fathers  who  looked  after  the  mothers  who 
had  bought  the  nurses  who  looked  after  the  bald- 
headed  babies.  They  used  to  come  out  on  to  the 
balconies,  dancing  the  babies  up  and  down  when  the 
piano-organs  played  in  the  street,  and  they  used  to 
make  a  great  fuss  round  the  perambulators  when 
the  bald-headed  babies  used  to  go  out  to  say  good 
morning  to  the  ducks  in  the  Park,  and  the  mother 
of  each  baby  used  to  say  exactly  the  same  things 
to  the  nurses  who  wheeled  each  perambulator.  Nick 
knew  exactly  what  the  mothers  would  say,  even  be- 
fore they  had  said  it.  First  they  would  say :  "Isn't 
he  a  precious  sweet?"  Then  they  would  say:  *'Do 
you  think  he  is  warm  enough?"  and  thirdly  they 
would  say :  "Oh,  the  beautiful  darling,  I  could  eat 
him,  I  could!" 

But  it  was  an  extraordinary  thing,  thought  Nick, 
that  no  one  seemed  to  find  more  than  one  baby  in 
a  flower-pot.  There  was  one  balcony  to  each  flat, 
and  one  baby  to  each  balcony.  He  consulted  Bristles 
on  the  subject,  and  Bristles,  after  pufling  at  his 
[52] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

pipe,  said  he  supposed  it  was  because  the  flower-pots 
were  not  large  enough,  or  because  babies  preferred 
houses  to  flats,  which  seemed  true,  for  Nick  knew 
houses  on  the  other  side  of  the  Park  where  the 
mothers  had  two  nurses  and  two  perambulators,  and 
sometimes  two  babies  in  each  perambulator.  He 
wished  sometimes  that  Bristles  and  Beauty  would 
go  to  live  in  a  house,  because,  though  he  had  never 
actually  spoken  to  a  bald-headed  baby,  he  thought 
it  would  be  rather  fun  to  have  a  few  about  him, 
so  that  he  could  have  jokes  with  them.  When  he 
got  tired  of  them,  he  could  shut  them  up  in  a  cup- 
board with  his  other  toys. 

It  was  on  the  balcony  that  some  hints  of  the  mys- 
teries and  wonders  and  thrill  of  life  came  into  the 
soul  of  Nicholas  Barton,  as  he  sat  there  on  sunny 
days  with  Peter  Rabbit  in  a  chair  which  he  had 
made  for  him  out  of  a  cardboard  box,  and  with 
Bristles,  who  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  reading  his 
paper,  and  staring  away  over  the  tree-tops.  For 
up  to  the  high  balcony  came  the  music  of  life,  made 
up  of  hundreds  of  sounds  all  joining  into  one  tune 
— the  rattling  notes  of  a  distant  piano-organ,  the 
faint,  far-oflF  chorus  of  the  birds  in  Battersea  Park, 
the  laughter  of  the  mothers  on  the  balconies,  the 
jingle  of  cab-bells,  the  hooting  of  the  steamers  on 
the  river,  the  song  sung  in  a  high  voice  by  the  girl 
in  the  second  floor  flat,  the  scales  played  on  many 
pianos  through  many  open  windows,  the  strange 

[53] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

melancholy  cry  of  the  sweep,  v/ho  asked  the  world 
to  "Veep!  'weep!" — the  cheerful  cry  of  "Milk-oo" 
to  the  rattle  of  tin  cans,  the  shouts  of  the  boys  row- 
ing to  the  magic  islands  on  the  lake. 

Listening  to  all  this,  and  looking  down  upon  the 
little  people  who  passed  in  the  street,  far  below, 
Nick  felt  like  God— at  least  he  felt  that  he  felt 
like  God — gazing  down  upon  the  world  from  this 
flat  in  Heaven,  very  interested  in  all  the  goings-on 
down  there,  and  wondering  why  the  people  did  the 
things  they  did,  and  curious  to  know  more  about 
them. 

Nick  wanted  to  know  much  more  about  them,  and 
he  asked  Bristles  to  tell  him  some  of  the  millions 
of  things  he  wanted  to  know. 

"Why  do  all  the  men  go  away  from  home  when 
the  sun  has  nearly  eaten  up  the  mist  and  then  come 
home  when  the  shadows  climb  down  from  the 
trees?" 

To  which  question  Bristles  made  answer : 

"Because  they  have  to  earn  money  to  pay  for 
the  pretty  hats  of  their  lady  wives,  and  for  the  new 
clothes  of  their  bald-headed  babies,  and  for  all  the 
things  which  have  to  be  bought  and  paid  for." 

"How  do  they  earn  the  money?"  asked  Nick. 

To  which  Bristles  replied,  between  the  puffs  of  his 
pipe: 

"By  doing  all  sorts  of  jobs  which  have  to  be 
done." 

[54] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

*'What  kind  of  jobs?" 

''Writing  books  for  people  who  are  too  lazy  to 
think,  adding  up  figures  for  people  who  have  so 
much  money  that  they  can't  count  it  all  themselves, 
examining  fleas  through  microscopes  and  counting 
the  little  fleas  on  the  backs  of  the  big  fleas,  inventing 
news  for  the  newspapers,  pretending  that  criminals 
are  innocent  men,  and  that  innocent  men  are  crim- 
inals— and  all  sorts  of  useful  jobs  like  that." 

*'I  see,"  said  Nicholas,  though  he  did  not  see  quite 
clearly.  After  thinking  the  matter  out  for  some 
time,  he  searched  about  for  some  new  discoveries. 

"Why  do  the  men  work  so  hard  for  nothing  at 
all?" 

''How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,  what  do  they  get  for  themselves  after 
they  have  given  all  their  money  for  the  things  that 
have  to  be  bought  and  paid  for?" 

Bristles  shifted  in  his  seat,  and  rubbed  his  nose 
wath  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  so  that  it  shone  with  a 
bright  new  polish. 

"Well,  they  get  some  'baccy  to  smoke,  and  enough 
to  eat  and  drink,  and  a  bald-headed  baby  or  two  to 
play  about  with,  and  some  nasturtiums  in  the  bal- 
cony, and — and — I'm  blest  if  I  can  think  of  anything 
else." 

"I  think  they're  asses,"  said  Nick.  "They  ought 
to  get  more  for  their  money." 

[55] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Bristles  laughed  at  the  reflection  of  his  own  face 
in  the  bowl  of  the  pipe. 

*1  am  not  so  sure,"  he  said.  ''You  see,  Nick, 
a  fellow  must  work  or  else  he  gets  awfully  tired  with 
himself.  And  it's  not  the  money  he  gets  so  much 
as  the  fun  he  gets  in  trying  to  get  the  money.    See?" 

"I  think  I  see,"  said  Nick.  "It's  like  when  I  try 
ever  so  hard  to  build  up  a  house  of  cards,  and  then, 
when  it  is  built,  all  the  fun  dies  and  I  kick  down 
the  house." 

''Exactly!"  said  Bristles.  "That's  just  like  real 
life,  except  that  it  is  generally  somebody  else  who 
kicks  down  the  card  house.  The  best  man  is  the 
one  who  keeps  on  building  them  up  again,  enjoying 
the  fun  every  time.  That's  what's  called  an  Opti- 
mist." 

"Are  you  an  Optimist  ?"  asked  Nick. 

Bristles  rubbed  his  bristly  jaw.  The  little  hairs 
were  beginning  to  sprout  up  again,  although  he  had 
only  cut  them  down  before  breakfast. 

"I  used  to  be,"  he  said,  at  last,  puffing  out  a  long 
coil  of  smoke,  "but  I  think  I'm  changing  into  a 
Pessimist." 

"What's  that?" 

"Why,  a  fellow  that  is  always  afraid  his  house 
of  cards  is  going  to  tumble  down." 

"Oh!"  said  Nick,  very  quickly.  "That's  rotten. 
You  can't  build  any  house  like  that.  I  know,  be- 
[56] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

cause  I  sometimes  feel  like  that  on  bad  days,  and 
then  every  card  goes  wrong." 

"Quite  true,  old  man,"  said  Bristles.  "It's  bad 
to  feel  like  that." 

He  gave  a  tremendous  sigh,  as  though  it  made 
him  feel  very  bad,  and  then  for  quite  a  long  time  he 
stared  away  over  the  tree-tops,  as  if  he  were  lookimg 
for  something  in  the  far  distance,  while  Nick  sat 
watching  him,  and  wondering  if  he  could  do  any- 
thing to  make  his  father  an  Optimist  again. 

It  was  on  this  morning  that  Nick  made  three  of 
his  really  big  discoveries. 

After  Bristles  had  given  up  looking  for  the  some- 
thing in  the  far  distance  and  had  brought  his  eyes 
back  to  the  balcony  again,  Nick  had  another  ques- 
tion to  ask. 

"What  do  you  do  to  earn  the  money  for  the 
things  that  have  to  be  bought  and  paid  for?" 

And  Bristles  said: 

"I  add  up  figures  for  the  people  who  have  so  much 
money  that  they  can't  count  it  all  themselves.  It's 
what  they  call  being  Something  in  the  City." 

"I  see,"  said  Nick.  "It's  a  funny  thing  I  haven't 
asked  you  that  before.  The  idea  never  jumped  into 
my  head." 

"Well,  now  you  know,"  said  Bristles. 

"Yes — now  I  know  why  you  are  so  frightfully 
rich.     I  suppose  you  get  all  the  money  that  the 
people  who  can't  count  don't  know  they  have." 
[57] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Bristles  laughed  as  though  he  had  become  an  Op- 
timist again. 

"My  dear  old  man,  what  makes  you  think  I'm 
frightfully  rich?" 

''Because  you  pay  for  Beauty  and  me  and  Polly 
and  all  the  other  things  that  cost  such  a  lot." 

"Beauty  pays  for  herself,  worse  luck/'  said 
Bristles.  "And  I  am  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse — 
worse  luck,  also." 

"Not  really  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse?"  asked 
Nick  with  a  great  anxiety,  for  he  somehow  felt  that 
a  Church  Mouse  must  be  frightfully  poor. 

"Really  and  truly,"  said  Bristles. 

"That's  rotten,"  said  Nick. 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  he  thought  about  it  a 
lot,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  made  three  terribly 
big  discoveries.  One  was  that  Beauty  paid  for 
herself.  He  did  not  know  before  then  that  any 
kind  of  Beauty  ever  paid  for  herself.  And  the  sec- 
ond was  that  Bristles  was  Something  in  the  City. 
That  sounded  absolutely  awful.  And  the  third  was 
that  he  was  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  which  was 
worst  of  all. 

These  discoveries  made  all  sorts  of  queer  little 
ideas  jump  into  his  head,  and  they  did  not  jump  out 
again  like  some  of  his  ideas,  but  grew  into  big  ideas 
which  took  up  a  lot  of  room,  so  that  sometimes  they 
made  his  head  ache. 

But  for  some  reason  which  he  could  not  explain 
[58] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

to  himself  he  never  spoke  about  these  discoveries  to 
the  girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat,  and  that  was  funny, 
because  he  used  to  tell  her  about  nearly  all  the  dis- 
coveries which  he  made  from  time  to  time.  She 
had  a  lot  of  her  own  discoveries,  and  they  used  to 
exchange  them  with  each  other,  just  as  they  ex- 
changed their  fairy-tale  books,  and  some  of  the  toys 
they  had  got  tired  of,  and  some  of  the  sweets  which 
came  to  them  on  birthdays  and  holidays.  This  was 
Joan  Darracott,  who  hadn't  got  a  balcony,  because 
she  lived  next  to  the  street,  but  who  had  a  front 
garden  in  which  she  planted  seeds  which  never  grew 
up. 

Joan  was  a  girl  with  a  short  white  frock  and  long 
black  legs  and  yellow  hair  like  a  wax  doll's,  which 
was  tied  up  over  each  ear  by  a  white  silk  bow. 
Nick  had  known  her  a  long  time  by  sight,  before 
he  knew  her  by  heart,  because  she  was  the  girl  who 
always  picked  up  the  things  which  he  dropped  down 
from  the  balcony  into  her  garden,  and  never  gave 
them  back  again.  He  dropped  down  a  big  ball  with 
a  picture  of  Westminster  Abbey  on  one  side  and 
with  a  picture  of  the  Tower  of  London  on  the 
other  side,  and  among  other  things  he  dropped  down 
were  his  second  best  pistol,  his  biggest  marble  with 
the  colored  snake  Inside,  and  his  mouth-organ.  Joan 
picked  thest*  things  up  as  though  they  had  fallen 
from  Heaven — and  indeed  they  had  fallen  almost 
as  far — and  he  actually  heard  her  playing  the  mouth- 
[59] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

organ  in  her  front  garden  one  day,  just  as  if  it  be- 
longed to  her,  although  she  couldn't  get  any  kind 
of  tune  out  of  it,  but  just  blew  up  and  down  in  a 
silty  sort  of  way. 

This  was  a  bit  too  much  for  Nicholas  Barton. 
He  happened  to  be  passing  the  railings  of  the 
ground-floor  flat,  and  he  put  his  nose  between  them, 
and  said: 

"Hi!    That's  my  mouth-organ!" 

The  girl  with  the  short  white  frock  and  the  long 
black  legs  stopped  blowing,  looked  round  to  see 
where  the  voice  came  from,  and  then  said,  very 
calmly : 

"No,  it  isn't." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Nick. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Joan. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Nick. 

This  went  on  for  some  time,  until  they  both  got 
tired  of  saying  the  same  thing.  Then  the  girl  said, 
by  way  of  a  change: 

"I  found  it  in  my  garden,  and  what  I  find  in  my 
garden  is  mine.     See?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Nick.  "If  you'll  hand  that 
mouth-organ  through  the  railings  I  will  .prove  it's 
mine." 

"How  will  you  prove  it?" 

"By  playing  a  tune  on  it." 

"Pooh !    You  can't  play  a  tune,"  said  the  girl. 
[60] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

"Can't  I  ?"  said  Nick.  "That's  all  you  know  about 
it" 

The  girl  put  the  mouth-organ  through  the  railings. 

"It's  my  mouth-organ,  but  I  will  let  you  play  one 
tune  on  it,  if  you  know  how." 

Nick  seized  the  mouth-organ,  and  after  taking 
a  good  deep  breath  to  last  him  a  long  time,  played : 

Here  we  go  looby-loo, 

Here  we  go  looby-light. 
Here  we  go  looby-loo, 

All  on  a  Saturday  night. 

He  finished  with  a  triumphant  note,  put  the 
mouth-organ  in  his  pocket,  said:  "Now  you  know 
it  is  mine !"  and  walked  away. 

But  he  stopped  suddenly  because  his  blood  was 
frozen  in  his  veins  by  the  sound  of  a  piercing  scream. 
It  came  from  the  girl  with  the  short  white  frock 
and  long  black  legs. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Nick,  going  back 
to  the  railings. 

Two  hands  were  suddenly  thrust  between  the  rail- 
ings, and  clutched  hold  of  him  so  that  he  couldn't 
escape. 

"Give  it  back!"  screamed  the  girl.  "Give  me 
my  mouth-organ." 

"It's  my  mouth-organ !"  gasped  Nick.  "I  proved 
it  to  you." 

[6i] 


\ 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"If  you  don't  give  it  back  I'll  scream  till  your 
ears  break,"  said  the  girl. 

Then  she  started  screaming  so  that  Nick  was  quite 
sure  his  ears  would  break.  He  simply  couldn't  bear 
it,  so  he  shouted  as  loudly  as  he  could: 

"If  you  will  let  go  of  my  arms,  I  will  give  it  to 
you." 

She  stopped  screaming  instantly,  and  waited  while 
Nick  dived  down  into  his  pocket,  wrenched  out  his 
beautiful  mouth-organ,  and  handed  it  through  the 
railings,  where  it  was  grabbed  by  the  girl. 

"Sneak !"  said  Nick,  and  with  that  word  of  scorn 
he  walked  away.  But  he  hadn't  gone  two  yards  be- 
fore he  heard  a  voice  calling  "Boy !  boy !"  He  went 
back  again,  and  saw  the  girl's  eyes  through  the 
railings. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  Nick. 

"Here's  your  silly  old  mouth-organ.  Good  rid- 
dance to  bad  rubbish." 

Nick  took  the  precious  instrument  and  walked 
away  with  it,  but  somehow  the  tunes  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  it  for  a  little  while.  He  sat  down  in 
his  own  room  upstairs,  and  had  a  long  talk  with 
Peter  Rabbit. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  "are  all  girls  like  that?  Do 
they  scream  for  things  they  don't  want,  and  then 
give  them  back  again  to  the  people  the  things  belong 
to?" 

[62] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

Peter  was  silent,  but  Nick  took  his  answer  for 
granted. 

''Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  girls  must  be  awfully 
rotten,"  said  Nick. 

And  yet  the  curious  thing  is  that,  although  Nick 
came  to  this  opinion  about  girlhood  in  general  and 
the  girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat  in  particular,  he 
found  himself  longing  to  have  further  conversation 
with  that  remarkable  young  lady.  The  opportunity 
came  one  day  when  he  had  gone  quite  alone  into 
Battersea  Park — he  was  old  enough  now  to  go 
alone — in  order  to  have  a  few  words  with  the  old 
owls,  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  the  squirrel,  in 
case  he  had  come  out  from  the  back  parlor  of  his 
cage,  to  throw  a  pebble  at  the  water  rats  under 
the  rustic  bridge,  and  to  stand  under  the  big  tree 
which  stretched  its  arms  down  to  catch  small  boys, 
or  at  least  one  small  boy  who  had  tremendous  thrills, 
although  he  knew  the  tree  could  not  stretch  low 
enough  to  reach  him. 

It  was  down  the  path  close  to  this  tree  that  the 
girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat  came  with  a  big  dog, 
a  fair-sized  nurse,  and  a  very  little  sunshade,  which 
she  spun  like  a  teetotum  over  her  shoulder.  She 
stopped  spinning  the  parasol  when  she  saw  Nick, 
and  said,  with  a  friendly  grin : 

''Hulloh,  boy?" 

''Hulloh!"  said  Nick. 

The  nurse  said:  "Come  on,  Miss  Joan/'  and 
[63] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

moved  on  with  her  nose  in  a  novelette  which  she 
was  reading  as  she  walked. 

But  Miss  Joan  did  not  come  on. 

She  said  to  Nick :  "I  bet  I'll  race  you  to  the  other 
end  of  the  grass.    One,  two,  three,  and  away!" 

She  was  away  before  she  got  as  far  as  two,  which 
was  not  quite  fair,  and  she  won  the  race  easily,  be- 
cause she  had  a  start  of  at  least  five  yards,  so  that 
Nick  came  up  panting  and  humiliated. 

"You  cheated,"  he  said. 

The  girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat  laughed,  and 
flung  her  sunshade  on  to  the  grass,  and  sat  down 
next  to  the  sunshade,  with  her  short  white  skirt 
spread  all  round  her  and  her  long  black  legs  stick- 
ing out,  while  her  big  dog,  which  had  joined  in 
the  race,  rushed  round  five  trees  and  then  came  to 
lie  down  by  the  side  of  his  mistress,  grimacing  hap- 
pily with  his  tongue  lolling  out. 

"You  cheated,"  said  Nick  again. 

"Did  I?"  said  the  girl.  "Well,  father  says  girls 
always  cheat,  so  I  suppose  I  can't  help  it." 

"It's  rotten  to  cheat,"  said  Nick.  "Boys  don't 
cheat." 

"Don*t  they?"  said  the  girl.  "I  suppose  they're 
not  clever  enough.  They're  frightfully  stupid 
things,  boys." 

"How  do  you  know?'*  asked  Nick. 

The  little  girl  lay  back  on  the  grass  and  stared 
up  at  the  skv. 

[64l 


I 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

*'It  was  one  of  my  discoveries,"  said  the  girl, 
kicking  her  heels  up  and  down. 

Nick  was  startled. 

"Do  you  make  discoveries  too?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  always  making  them.  Father  says  he 
doesn't  know  how  I  find  out  half  the  things  I  do." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  some  of  your  discov- 
eries?" said  Nick,  sitting  down  on  the  grass,  with 
his  knees  tucked  up  to  his  chin,  and  his  hands 
clasped  round  his  knees,  while  he  stared  at  the  girl 
kicking  her  heels  up  and  down. 

She  did  not  mind  telling  him  in  the  least.  But 
she  said  she  could  only  tell  him  a  few,  until  nurse 
finished  her  novelette  on  the  seat  over  there  and 
then  came  to  say :  "Whatever  have  you  been  doing, 
Miss  Joan  ?  I've  been  looking  for  you  every  where, 
and  I  shall  tell  your  mamma  what  a  naughty  Httle 
girl  you've  been." 

"But  that  would  be  an  awful  whopper!"  said 
Nick.     "Does  she  generally  tell  whoppers?" 

"Always,"  said  the  little  girl.  "That  was  one  of 
my  discoveries." 

Among  her  other  discoveries  were  the  following 
remarkable  facts : 

That  grown-up  people  are  always  deceiving  small 
boys  and  girls; 

That  grown-up  people  think  small  boys  and  girls 
don't  know  they  are  being  deceived; 

That  small  boys  and  girls  don't  let  the  grown- 
[65] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Up  people  know  that  they  know  they  are  being  de- 
ceived ; 

That  grown-up  people  are  always  telling  boys 
and  girls  to  do  things  which  they  wouldn't  do  them- 
selves. 

"What  sort  of  things?"  asked  Nick. 

"Oh,  being  obedient,  and  saying  you're  sorry 
when  you're  not  sorry,  and  glad  when  you're  not 
glad,  and  eating  puddings  you  hate,  and  going  to 
bed  at  the  proper  time  like  a  good  girl,  and  learn- 
ing lessons  which  you  don't  want  to  learn,  and  heaps 
and  hundreds  of  other  things  which  make  you  want 
to  scream  the  house  down." 

*'Do  you  ever  try  to  scream  the  house  down?" 
asked  Nick. 

"Oh,  often." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  won't,"  said  Nick,  anxiously. 
"Because  I  live  in  the  top-floor  flat,  you  know." 

Joan  Darracott  considered  this  idea  in  all  its 
bearings. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  would  come  down  an  awful 
whop,  wouldn't  you?" 

That  was  about  the  end  of  the  first  conversation, 
for  the  nurse,  having  finished  the  novelette,  came 
over  and  said  exactly  the  things  Joan  said  she  would 
say.  But  afterwards  Nick  often  met  Joan  in  Batter- 
sea  Park,  and  whenever  Nick  had  any  sweets  in  his 
pocket  Joan  took  more  than  half  of  them,  and  when- 
ever Joan  had  any  sweets  in  her  pocket  she  gave 
[66] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

him  one  or  two  as  a  great  favor,  and  said  he  ought 
to  be  very  grateful  to  her.  If  he  had  a  new  toy  she 
"swapped"  it  for  something  he  didn't  want,  so  that 
he  hated  her  for  making  him  *'swap"  (which  was  a 
word  he  didn't  know  before) ,  but  became  her  victim 
again  the  very  next  time. 

He  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  hated 
her  most  or  Hked  her  most,  because  sometimes  he 
hated  her  so  much  that  he  wanted  to  kill  her,  and 
sometimes  he  liked  her  so  much  that  he  was  afraid 
of  liking  her  more  even  than  Beauty,  and  more  than 
Peter  Rabbit,  and  more  than  Robin  the  Rocking 
Horse. 

He  liked  her  most  when  she  played  games  of 
hide-and-seek  with  him  in  and  out  of  the  trees,  cry- 
ing "Cuckoo !  Cuckoo !"  in  a  voice  like  the  top-notes 
of  his  mouth-organ,  and  then  darting  from  behind  a 
tree,  with  her  yellow  hair  glittering  like  gold,  and 
her  eyes  like  dancing  stars,  and  her  white  frock  like 
a  puff  of  white  smoke. 

And  he  liked  her  when  she  sat  down  under  a 
tree  with  him,  with  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
and  her  arm  round  his  waist,  telling  him  queer 
dream-tales  about  cats  with  pink  eyes,  and  princesses 
with  glass  slippers,  and  flowers  that  came  out  of 
the  flower-beds  at  night  and  danced  until  the  sun 
got  up.  And  he  liked  her  when  she  told  him  about 
a  man  called  Daddy,  who  wrote  books  which  nobody 
would  ever  read,  because  they  were  much  too  good, 
[67] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

and  about  a  lady  called  Mumsy,  who  said  that  she 
wished  she  had  married  a  man  who  sold  butter 
instead  of  books,  because  everybody  wanted  butter 
but  nobody  wanted  books;  and  about  a  man  called 
Uncle  Jack,  who  said  the  country  was  going  to  the 
dogs  (Joan  could  never  find  out  why),  and  about  a 
lady  called  Aunt  Sarah,  who  said  the  Radicals  were 
perfect  devils  (though  Joan  had  never  met  a  Radi- 
cal and  didn't  know  what  it  looked  like),  and  about 
all  the  other  people  who  came  to  the  ground-floor 
flat. 

But  Nick  hated  her  when  Joan  cheated  him  at 
marbles,  broke  his  humming  top  and  said  it  was 
his  fault,  and  scratched  his  face  because  he  had  given 
her  a  new  silver  sixpence  (the  whole  of  his  week's 
pocket  money),  which  she  dropped  over  the  rustic 
bridge  into  the  place  where  the  water-rats  lived. 

After  dropping  the  silver  sixpence  she  dropped 
several  tears,  which  fell  into  the  water  and  made 
tiny  ripples,  and  when  Nick  said:  "Never  mind, 
Joan,"  she  turned  round  and  scratched  his  face,  and 
said:  "It  was  my  sixpence  and  I  do  mind — so 
there!" 

But  he  hated  her  most  of  all  when  she  told  him 
of  one  of  her  discoveries. 

"My  mother  says  that  your  mother — the  one  you 
call  Beauty — is  a  fast  creature,  and  that  there'll  be 
a  scandal  one  of  these  fine  days." 

[68] 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  GROUND-FLOOR  FLAT 

"What's  a  scandal?"  asked  Nick,  getting  very 
white  in  the  face. 

"I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Joan.  "Something 
frightful,  I  expect." 

''And  what's  a  fast  creature?"  asked  Nick,  breath- 
ing very  hard. 

"A  creature  that  is  fast,"  said  Joan  in  her  wisest 
way.     "Wound  up  too  much,  like  a  fast  clock." 

Nick  knew  that  the  Something  which  had  a  liid- 
ing-place  deep  down  in  his  heart  was  tearing  its 
way  up,  stretching  out  great  claws  into  liis  brain, 
setting  his  eyes  on  fire. 

He  made  one  grab  at  Joan  Darracott  and  took  out 
a  handful  of  her  yellow  hair.  He  still  held  it  as 
he  set  off  running  to  the  Park  gates,  while  Joan 
Darracott' s  screams  were  blown  faintly  to  his  ears 
by  the  pursuing  wind. 


[69'i 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

It  was  about  the  time  that  Nicholas  Barton  took 
forcible  possession  of  some  of  Joan  Darracott's 
golden  curls  that  he  became  aware  of  a  secret  be- 
tween himself  and  Bristles.  He  discovered  that 
Bristles  hated  the  Beast  as  much  as  he  did,  and 
perhaps  a  little  bit  more. 

This  idea  jumped  into  his  head  suddenly  one  day, 
and  afterward  grew  into  certain  knowledge.  It 
came  to  him  first  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  when 
Bristles  came  home  early,  as  usual,  took  off  his 
black  coat  and  chimney-pot  hat,  put  on  an  old  grey 
coat  and  a  pepper-and-salt  cap,  and  said: 

"Now,  Nick,  old  man,  let's  go  and  feed  the  ducks." 

To  Polly  he  said : 

"When  will  the  mistress  be  home?" 

(He  always  called  Beauty  "the  mistress.") 

And  Polly  said: 

"Not  till  late,  as  she's  got  one  of  her  rehearsals, 
poor  dear !" 

Nicholas  had  never  yet  found  out  what  a  rehearsal 
was,  but  he  knew  it  was  something  horrid,  because 
Beauty  was  always  in  a  bad  temper  when  she  had 
to  go  to  one,  and  Bristles  always  said  "Hang  the 

[70] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

rehearsals!"  and  Polly  always  said,  *Toor  dear!" 
when  Beauty  came  home  with  a  rehearsal-headache. 

But  this  afternoon  he  did  not  think  much  about 
the  matter,  because  he  had  been  saving  a  number  of 
crusts  of  bread  all  the  week  for  this  very  Saturday 
afternoon  when  Bristles  would  come  home  and  say : 

"Now,  Nick,  old  man,  let's  go  and  feed  the  ducks." 

So  he  had  a  nice,  warm,  happy  feeling  under  his 
jersey  when  he  set  off  with  Bristles  and  the  bag  of 
crusts,  and  thought  of  the  tremendous  quacking 
there  would  be,  and  the  exciting  chases  and  fights 
as  soon  as  he  began  to  throw  the  bread  into  the 
water. 

It  all  happened  as  he  had  hoped  it  would,  and 
Nick  shouted  with  laughter,  and  Bristles  chuckled 
with  laughter,  and  other  small  boys  laughed  and 
shouted,  and  other  fathers  chuckled,  when  he  flung 
crusts  into  the  struggling  crowd  of  ducks  who  gob- 
bled them  up  as  fast  as  he  could  throw.  He  knew 
most  of  them  by  sight  and  by  name.  There  was 
old  Yellow-bill  the  greediest  of  them  all,  and  little 
Black-eye,  the  next  greediest,  and  Green-tail,  the 
Japanese  duck,  and  Bob-tail,  ihe  fellow  who  was  al- 
ways fighting.  It  was  Bob-tail  who  made  the  biggest 
noise  and  who  scurried  across  the  water  with  flap- 
ping wings  and  paddling  feet  in  hot  chase  of  any 
rival  to  whom  Nick  had  flung  a  crust. 

The  fun  came  to  an  end  too  quickly,  and  a  store 
[71] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

of  crusts  which  had  taken  a  week  to  save  were  all 
gone  in  five  minutes. 

"What  shall  we  do  now?"  said  Nick,  with  that 
desire  for  adventure  which  sometimes  made  him 
tired  of  his  old  friends,  like  the  Squirrel  and  the 
sleepy  owls. 

Bristles  put  his  cap  back,  so  that  the  sun  was 
warm  on  his  face,  and  he  stared  at  the  lake  which 
was  like  a  big  looking-glass  reflecting  the  little  white 
clouds  and, the  blue  sky. 

''How  about  a  boat?"  said  Bristles.  *'We  might 
go  in  search  of  the  New  World." 

Nick  did  a  double-shuffle  on  the  pathway. 

"Oh,  rather!  I  will  be  Sir  Francis  Drake,  and 
you  can  be  Admiral  Nelson.  Only,  you  must  pre- 
tend to  have  only  one  eye  and  one  arm." 

Bristles  suggested  that  as  he  would  have  to  row 
he  had  better  be  Sir  Francis  Drake,  with  two  arms, 
while  Nick  might  be  Admiral  Nelson,  except  when 
he  steered  under  the  bridge,  when  he  would  want 
both  his  arms  and  very  sharp  eyes.  After  some  dis- 
cussion this  was  agreed,  and  in  a  boat  called  the  Oak- 
apple,  which  was  a  little  leaky  at  the  bottom,  they 
set  out  in  search  of  the  New  World.  They  had 
many  adventures  including  hair-breadth  escapes  from 
Red  Indians  in  other  boats,  and  a  providential  es- 
cape from  shipwreck  when  Nick,  who  was  looking 
out  for  wild  tigers  on  the  distant  shore,  steered  the 
boat   into   some  floating  timber.      But  then   they 

t72] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

sighted  the  coast  of  America,  and  Bristles  pulled 
steadily  toward  some  over-hanging  trees  by  the 
low-lying  bank. 

But  suddenly  he  stopped  rowing  and  rested  on  his 
oars,  and  Nick  saw  that  his  father  had  a  queer  ex- 
pression on  his  face  as  he  stared  toward  the  trees, 
as  though  he  saw  some  hideous  cannibals  or  the 
one-eyed  giant  who  hurled  stones  at  Ulysses  and  his 
men. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Nick,  with  that  sud- 
den sense  of  fear  which  came  to  him  sometimes  when 
Bristles  played  the  game  as  if  it  were  really  real. 
He  looked  toward  the  overhanging  tree  at  which 
Bristles  was  staring,  and  then  gave  a  shout  of  sur- 
prise. 

'There's  Beauty !— Beauty !"    . 

Beauty  was  lying  at  full  length  in  a  boat  In  the 
little  shadow-world  under  the  overhanging  tree, 
with  her  head  propped  up  on  a  scarlet  cushion,  while 
at  the  other  end  of  the  boat  Danvers  sat  with  the 
rudder-strings  in  his  hands  and  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  and  his  head  drooped  forward  a  little  as 
he  smiled  down  at  Beauty.  But  they  did  not  stay  in 
this  position  after  Nick's  shout  rang  out  over  the 
water.  Danvers  turned  his  head  sharply,  and  then 
sat  up  very  straight,  and  Beauty  raised  her  head 
from  the  pillow  and  then  scrambled  up  like  a  big 
white  bird  startled  from  its  nest.  Nick  knew  that 
his  voice  had  frightened  her,  and  was  sorry  for 
17?] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

having  shouted  so  suddenly.  She  had  a  very  scared 
look  in  her  eyes.  But  only  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  waved  her  hand,  and  called  out,  "Hulloh"  and 
laughed  so  that  the  sound  of  her  laughter  seemed 
to  ripple  over  the  water.  Dan  vers  also  waved  his 
hand  in  a  friendly  way,  but  Nick  pretended  not  to 
see  that. 

''Let's  row  under  the  tree,"  said  Nick.  '1  expect 
Beauty  wants  to  talk  to  us." 

But  Bristles,  who  still  had  a  queer  look  on  his 
face,  plunged  his  oar  into  the  water  and  pulled  the 
boat  round,  and  then  rowed  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion; and  above  the  squeak  of  the  rowlocks  as  the 
oars  went  to  and  fro,  Nick  heard  Bristles  say  some- 
thing about  '*that  beast  Danvers"  between  his 
clenched  teeth.  He  was  not  a  bit  playful  for  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  forgot  all  about  discov- 
ering the  New  World.  But  Nick  had  made  another 
discovery.  He  knew  now  that  Bristles  hated  the 
Beast. 

He  knew  it  for  certain  that  afternoon,  when 
Beauty  came  home  alone,  with  her  hair  untidy,  after 
the  wind  had  been  playing  with  it,  and  with  a  queer 
little  smile  about  her  lips  when  she  put  her  face  up  for 
Bristles  to  kiss. 

But  Bristles  did  not  kiss  her.  He  wrinkled  his 
forehead  in  the  way  he  used  to  do  when  Nick  was 
in  one  of  his  bad  moods,  and  pretended  to  be  busy 
with  his  pipe. 

[74] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

"I  thought  you  had  got  a  rehearsal  this  after- 
noon," he  said  very  quietly.     ''Didn't  you  tell  me 

sor 

"Did  I?"  said  Beauty. 

"I  suppose  it  was  a  lie,"  said  Bristles,  and  then 
he  said  in  such  a  quiet  voice  that  he  seemed  to  be 
speaking  with  his  teeth  shut,  "like  so  many  other 
things  you  have  told  me  lately." 

Nick  was  listening  hard,  and  his  eyes  were  watch- 
ing the  faces  of  Beauty  and  Bristles,  because  he 
knew  that,  in  spite  of  their  quiet  way  of  speaking, 
the  queer  Something  which  is  in  people's  hearts  was 
trying  to  get  up  to  their  throats.  He  knew  that 
because  Beauty's  face  went  very  white  all  of  a  sud- 
den, and  because  two  sparks  seemed  to  light  up  in 
her  eyes,  and  because  the  wrinkles  which  Bristles 
put  on  to  his  forehead  were  so  deep  that  they  looked 
like  the  claws  of  a  bird. 

"Don't  bully  me  in  front  of  the  boy,"  said  Beauty, 
"because  I  won't  stand  it.    See?" 

"I  am  not  going  to  bully  you  at  all,"  said  Bristles, 
striking  a  match,  but  forgetting  to  light  his  pipe. 
"All  I  want  to  know  is  why  you  told  me  you  had 
a  rehearsal  when  you  had  arranged  to  go  in  a  boat 
with  that  beast  Danvers.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me 
a  straight  answer  to  a  straight  question,  Beauty  ?" 

Nick  believed  that  Bristles  was  very  angry  until 
he  said  that  word  "Beauty."  Then  his  voice  seemed 
[75] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

to  soften,  as  thoilgh  he  was  sorry  for  being  angry, 
and  wanted  to  be  kind  again. 

But  Beauty  ''flared  up,"  as  Polly  used  to  say  when 
Nick  suddenly  jumped  into  a  rage.  She  threw  her 
hat  down  on  the  sofa,  and  began  to  tear  off  her  white 
gloves. 

"Don't  put  on  your  ^hanging  judge'  manner," 
she  said.  "I  earn  my  own  living,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  my  own  friends,  and  I  decline  to  be  cross- 
questioned  as  though  I  were  a  criminal  in  the  dock. 
See?" 

She  always  spoke  that  little  word  "see"  with  a 
sudden  lift  of  the  voice,  like  one  of  the  treble  notes 
in  the  piano.  Nick  knew  that  when  she  did  that 
she  generally  cried  afterward,  as  though  it  had  hurt 
her. 

Bristles  struck  another  match,  and  forgot  to  light 
his  pipe  again. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  tell  you  once  for  all, 
Beauty,  that  I  forbid  you  to  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  that  man  Danvers.  I  dislike  both  his  man- 
ners and  his  morals,  and  if  he  comes  inside  this  flat 
I  shall  kick  him  out  again.    Do  you  understand?" 

Beauty  did  not  seem  to  understand.  She  just  gave 
a  queer  little  laugh,  though  Nick  noticed  that  her 
nostrils  quivered,  and  that  the  sparks  in  her  eyes 
lighted  up  again. 

"I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand  that  word  'for- 
bid,* "  said  Beauty.    "It  always  seemed  to  me  a  very 

[76] 


I 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

foolish  word  to  be  used  by  any  man  to  any  wife.  It 
is  perfectly  absurd  from  you  to  me,  my  dear  old 
Bristly  Bristles.     Perfectly  absurd!" 

Then  she  told  Nick  to  go  and  play  in  the  kitchen 
with  Polly,  but  outside  the  door  Nick  stood  and 
listened  for  a  little  while,  not  hearing  any  words, 
but  hearing  the  voices  of  Beauty  and  Bristles  speak- 
ing quietly  in  a  kind  of  duet,  low  notes  and  high 
notes  clashing  together.  Nick  was  not  very  old, 
and  not  very  big,  but  at  that  moment  there  was 
revealed  to  him  something  of  the  conflict  of  hearts, 
something  of  the  great  mystery  of  human  passion, 
something  of  the  tragedy  of  love.  There  were 
the  two  people  whom  he  loved  best  in  the  world, 
but  he  could  only  stand  outside  the  door  and  listen 
to  the  quarrel  of  their  voices.  He  did  not  go  into 
the  kitchen  to  play  with  Polly,  but  crept  away  to 
ask  queer  questions  of  Peter  Rabbit.  He  stayed 
in  his  room  until  the  light  went  out  from  the  window 
panes,  and  the  room  was  shadow-haunted — until 
Beauty's  voice  called  to  him :  *'Where  are  you, 
Nick?"  and  until  she  came  to  search  for  him,  won- 
dering at  his  sitting  there  so  still  in  the  twilight. 
When  she  turned  on  the  electric  light  he  saw  that 
her  lashes  were  wet  and  shining,  and  that  the 
splash  of  a  tear  was  still  on  her  cheek.  Nick  ran 
to  her,  and  kissed  her  hands,  feeling  frightfully  sorry 
because  he  and  Bristles  had  to  hate  the  Beast  so 
much. 

[77] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

For  a  long  time  after  this  Nicholas  did  not  see 
the  man  Danvers.  He  never  came  to  the  flat  again, 
perhaps  because  he  had  heard  that  Bristles  wanted 
to  kick  him  downstairs — and  there  were  ever  so 
many  stairs  from  the  top-floor  flat  to  the  ground-floor 
flat — so  that  Nicholas  only  kept  the  memory  of  him 
in  one  of  the  back  cupboards  of  his  mind. 

Nick  had  a  lot  of  other  things  to  think  about  now 
— ^^tremendously  exciting  things,  such  as  learning  the 
difference  between  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  each 
one  of  which  seemed  to  him  like  a  person  with  a 
different  character — the  O  was  a  fat,  smiling  fellow, 
the  T  was  always  holding  his  arms  out  to  catch 
the  letters  on  either  side,  the  B  was  a  little  man 
with  a  big  paunch,  the  I  was  a  lean  and  lanky 
creature — and  then  fitting  them  together  so  that 
they  made  the  words  which  Nick  had  used  as  long 
as  he  could  remember,  and  then  making  sentences 
which  seemed  to  have  secret  meanings,  as  though 
they  were  hiding  something  behind  the  things  they 
said,  like  "The  cat  sat  on  the  mat,"  "The  boy  had 
a  big  toy,"  "The  fat  cat  sat  on  the  big  toy  of  the 
boy."  Here  was  a  domestic  drama  which  seemed 
like  the  beginning  of  a  fairy  tale,  but  which  left 
Nick  puzzled  as  to  the  end  of  it.  Then  he  learned 
about  the  bigness  of  the  world  on  colored  maps, 
and  traced  out  long  journeys  from  Battersea  Park 
to  Buenos  A5rres,  and  from  the  river  Thames  to  the 
West  Indies,  and  he  learned  to  make  baskets  with 
[78] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

colored  straws  and  mats  with  colored  papers,  which 
he  brought  home  as  presents  for  Beauty  and 
Bristles. 

All  these  things  he  learned  at  a  wonderful  place 
called  a  Kindergarten,  which  he  hated  with  a  deadly 
hatred  for  the  first  week,  until  he  liked  it  better 
than  any  other  place,  except  his  own  top-floor  flat. 
He  went  to  the  kindergarten  every  morning  with 
Joan  Darracott,  the  girl  on  the  ground-floor  flat, 
who  was  nearly  always  late  in  starting,  because  she 
had  had  a  quarrel  with  her  boots,  or  because  she 
had  got  out  of  bed  the  wrong  way,  or  because  she 
had  refused  to  eat  her  porridge.  But  she  made  up 
for  her  lateness  by  running  races  to  the  kindergarten 
with  Nick,  across  the  park,  and  always  beating  him, 
because  of  the  long  black  legs  which  hardly  touched 
the  ground  when  she  ran. 

She  had  forgotten  all  about  the  way  in  which 
he  had  pulled  out  some  of  her  golden  hair,  and  she 
did  not  scratch  his  face  again,  but  once  in  the  kinder- 
garten she  stuck  a  pin  into  his  arm  because  he  would 
not  let  her  copy  his  spelling  from  dictation,  and 
when  he  gave  a  yell  he  had  to  stand  in  the  corner 
with  his  face  to  the  wall,  because  Miss  Felicity 
Smith  said  that  he  must  lejirn  how  to  behave  him- 
self. Joan  also  brought  him  into  disgrace  by  throw- 
ing his  spelling  book  into  a  puddle  in  the  park,  be- 
cause he  said  she  was  ridiculous  to  get  out  of  bed 
the  wrong  way,  and  he  was  smacked  on  the  hand 

[79] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

six  times  with  the  flat  of  a  ruler  because  she  drew 
a  picture  of  Miss  Felicity  Smith  on  his  copy  book, 
and  made  it  so  ugly — it  was  like  a  turnip  face  with 
a  very  large  mouth  and  very  large  teeth — that  it 
was  no  wonder  Miss  Felicity  was  angry. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  I  had  done  it?"  asked  Joan 
Darracott  in  a  whisper,  when  he  returned  to  his 
desk,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  very  hot  in  the  heart. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  ?"  asked  Nick. 

"Because  I  should  have  been  smacked  with  the 
ruler,"  said  Joan  Darracott. 

"Well,  it  was  your  fault,"  said  Nick.  "I  shall 
tell  on  you  next  time." 

"If  you  do,"  said  Joan,  "I  will  put  my  finger  into 
your  ink-pot  and  smudge  it  all  over  your  face.  Be- 
sides, you  won't  tell  on  me.  Boys  never  tell  on 
girls." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  they're  not  supposed  to." 

Nick  could  not  argue  against  that.  He  knew  it 
was  true.  He  knew  that  although  boys  and  girls 
sat  together  in  the  kindergarten,  and  did  the  same 
lessons,  and  played  the  same  games,  there  was  al- 
ways a  difference  between  them.  The  boys  always 
got  the  worst  of  it,  because  the  girls  were  let  off 
mistakes  for  which  the  boys  were  kept  in,  and  be- 
cause the  girls  could  be  as  rough  as  they  liked  with 
the  boys,  but  the  boys  must  never  be  rough  with  the 
girls. 

[80] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

''Ladies  first!"  said  Miss  Felicity  Smith,  when  the 
class  went  out  into  the  playground,  and  the  boys 
had  to  stand  on  one  side  while  the  ladies,  with  their 
noses  perked  up,  marched  past  them. 

"Manners,  please!"  said  Miss  Felicity  Smith, 
when  one  of  the  boys  pulled  a  girl's  hair  because 
she  had  pinched  him  when  he  wasn't  looking. 

''Young  gentlemen  should  always  be  polite  to 
young  ladies,"  said  Miss  Felicity  Smith  when  one 
of  the  young  ladies  said  that  one  of  the  young  gentle- 
men had  called  her  a  "silly  kid."  She  forgot  to 
say  that  she  had  first  called  the  young  gentleman 
a  "dirty  toad." 

Nick  sometimes  wondered  at  these  unfair  rules  of 
life.  But  after  a  time  he  gave  up  wondering  about 
it,  and  accepted  it  as  a  natural  and  inevitable  thing. 
Or,  as  he  put  it,  "it  couldn't  be  helped,"  like  a  lot 
of  other  little  things,  such  as  Joan's  uncertainty  of 
temper,  and  her  cocky  ways  with  him.  She  was 
frightfully  cocky  with  him  when  she  came  out  into 
the  Park  with  her  best  clothes  on,  and  passed  him 
with  a  "Good  morning,  boy,"  as  though  he  were 
a  ragamuflfin.  And  she  was  still  more  cocky  with  him 
when  she  won  the  prize  for  history,  though  he  had 
told  her  all  about  William  the  Conqueror  and 
William  Rufus  and  Stephen  the  very  day  before 
the  questions  had  been  asked,  when  she  knew  noth- 
ing about  it  at  all,  because  she  had  used  that  part 
of  her  history  book  to  make  paper  boats. 
[81] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  got  the  prize/* 
said  Nick.  "I  knew  much  more  than  you  did.  Only 
you  always  put  your  hand  up  as  if  you  knew  every- 
thing." 

"My  father  and  mother  are  very  proud  of  me," 
said  Joan.  "They  think  I  am  a  very  clever  little 
girl." 

"But  you're  not,"  said  Nick. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am!"  said  Joan. 

"You're  only  a  girl !"  said  Nick. 

"And  you're  only  a  boy !"  said  Joan. 

This  brought  them  to  a  deadlock,  and  they  were 
both  silent  for  a  little  while,  wondering  what  might 
be  the  next  step  in  this  argument.  It  was  Joan  who 
gained  the  victory  by  a  brilliant  stroke. 

"I  will  let  you  turn  over  the  leaves  of  my  prize 
book  if  you  get  your  nurse  to  wash  your  hands 
well." 

She  knew  that  would  crush  him.  It  was  a  smash- 
ing blow,  because  Nick's  hands  were  always  grubby, 
and  hers  were  always  lily-white. 

Nick  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  went  away 
trying  to  whistle  a  pleasant  tune.  But  his  whistle 
dried  up,  and  his  lips  were  trembling.  There  was  a 
terrible  hate  in  his  heart  for  Joan  Darracott  when 
he  heard  her  cocky  laugh  behind  him.  And  yet  the 
hate  did  not  last  very  long,  for  among  all  the  girls 
at  the  kindergarten  Joan  suited  him  best.  She  had 
her  good  days,  when  she  was  very  kind  and  nice, 

[82] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

when  they  went  on  their  way  to  school  with  arms 
about  each  other's  waists,  and  when  they  made 
promises  to  be  friends  forever  and  ever,  because 
they  Hked  the  same  kind  of  jokes,  and  exchanged 
each  other's  fairy-tales,  and  made  the  same  discov- 
eries about  the  queer  habits  of  grown-up  people. 

He  found  Joan's  friendship  very  useful  and  nec- 
essary to  him  when  Beauty  went  away  on  tour. 
That  was  a  few  days  after  his  reminder  of  the  Beast. 

The  reminder  came  in  a  queer  way.  Beauty  had 
been  "resting"  for  some  time.  That  is  to  say,  she 
did  not  go  to  the  theatre,  and  used  to  stay  in  bed 
longer  in  the  mornings  and  read  a  great  many  more 
novels  with  lovely  ladies  on  the  covers.  That  left 
her  free  in  the  afternoons  and  evenings,  so  that  she 
could  play  more  with  Nick  and  quarrel  more  with 
Bristles,  in  her  teasing  way.  Nick  was  glad  that 
Beauty  was  resting,  for  on  Wednesday  afternoons, 
when  he  had  a  half  holiday  from  the  kindergarten, 
she  used  to  take  him  on  what  she  called  a  ''jaunt," 
which  meant  that  they  would  go  to  the  Zoo  together, 
where  Beauty  made  faces  at  the  monkeys  and  gave 
little  squeals  of  laughter  at  them,  and  pointed  out 
monkeys  which  reminded  her  of  various  friends; 
or  they  would  go  to  a  big  shop  where  Beauty  bought 
things  which  she  did  not  want  when  they  were  sent 
home,  and  where  they  had  tea  together  to  the  tune 
of  a  string  band,  and  where  they  watched  a  lot  of 
ladies  exactly  like  those  on  the  covers  of  Beauty's 

[83] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

novels;  or  they  would  go  to  other  people's  houses, 
where  Nick  had  to  sit  very  still  and  quiet  while 
Beauty  and  the  other  people  talked  about  things 
which  seemed  to  amuse  them  a  great  deal,  because 
they  always  laughed  and  made  a  great  noise  while 
they  all  talked  at  the  same  time,  so  that  he  had 
to  laugh  too,  although  he  was  never  quite  sure  of 
the  joke. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  jaunts  that  they  met  the 
man  Dan  vers,  commonly  called  the  Beast,  whom 
Nick  had  not  seen  for  a  very  long  time. 

He  was  driving  along  the  road  in  a  hansom  cab 
—it  was  somewhere  near  the  big  shop  where  they 
had  musical  teas — and  when  he  saw  Beauty  he  put 
up  his  umbrella  so  that  the  cabman  jerked  up  his 
reins,  and  the  cab-horse  sprawled  out  its  feet,  and 
the  cab  came  to  a  standstill  quite  close  to  Beauty 
and  Nick. 

"Well  met!"  said  the  Beast,  jumping  out  of  the 
cab  and  taking  off  his  hat  to  Beauty.  He  did  not 
pay  the  slightest  attention  to  Nick. 

When  Beauty  shook  hands  with  him  she  laughed, 
as  if  it  were  rather  funny,  and  her  face  put  on  its 
flaming  poppy-color. 

"I  was  dashing  home  to  get  some  tea  before 
dashing  off  again  to  a  concert.  Come  home  with 
me  and  pour  out  the  tea." 

"I  don't  think  I  had  better,"  said  Beauty,  and 
[84] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

she  glanced  down  at  Nick,  as  though  he  might  be 
in  the  way. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Danvers,  carelessly. 
'*I  will  keep  the  boy  amused." 

Beauty  whispered  a  word  or  two  which  Nick  did 
not  hear,  but  then  Danvers  said,  rather  impatiently : 

"Surely  you  are  not  the  man's  slave,  are  you? 
Don't  come  if  you  don't  want  to." 

"I  do  want  to,"  said  Beauty.  "I  am  ready  for 
any  kind  of  adventure  this  afternoon — any  old 
thing  to  break  the  monotony." 

"Splendid!"  said  Danvers,  and  he  raised  his  um- 
brella again,  so  that  a  hansom  cab  which  had  been 
crawling  along  by  the  curb-stone  drew  up  with  a 
clatter  of  hoofs. 

Nick  sat  on  Beauty's  lap  in  the  cab,  and  Danvers 
sat  rather  close  to  Beauty,  and  tried  to  hold  her 
hand,  although  she  did  not  want  him  to  hold  it, 
and  slapped  his  hand  quite  hard  when  he  would 
not  keep  it  to  himself.  This  game,  which  Nick  did 
not  like,  lasted  until  the  cab  stopped  before  a  tall 
white  house  with  steps  leading  up  to  a  red  front 
door.  Danvers  opened  the  door  with  a  tiny  latch- 
key, and  making  a  very  low  bow  to  Beauty,  said: 
"Welcome  home,  my  dear!" 

For  a  moment  she  stood  on  the  doorstep,  as 
though  hesitating  to  go  in.  Nick  felt  her  clutching 
his  hand  very  tightly,  as  though  holding  on  to  him 
for  safety  from  something.     He  was  quite  sure  she 

[85] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

was  afraid  of  something,  just  like  he  used  to  be 
when  he  opened  the  door  of  his  toy-cupboard  in  the 
dark,  in  case  Something  might  jump  out  at  him. 
However,  in  another  moment  or  two  she  went  into 
the  hall  and  laughed,  as  though  laughing  at  her 
own  fears,  and  then  sang  the  first  line  of  a  nursery 
rhyme  which  Nick  knew  quite  well. 

"Will  you  come  into  my  parlor?"  said  the  Spider  to 
the  Fly. 

Danvers  sang  the  next  line,  as  he  shut  the  front 
door: 

"It*s  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy !" 

Then  he  led  the  way  into  his  parlor,  which  was 
not  a  little  one,  but  a  big  room  with  panels  of  wood 
round  the  walls,  and  a  ceiling  painted  all  over  with 
cupids  and  roses,  and  a  long  window  divided  into 
little  square  panes.  Nick's  roving  eyes  saw  that 
the  room  was  furnished  with  a  round  table  with  a 
polished  top  on  which  was  a  big  vase  full  of  roses, 
like  those  painted  on  the  ceiling,  and  with  a  short 
piano,  which  opened  on  top  like  a  big  box,  and  ^ 
with  glass  cases  full  of  tall  books  bound  in  red 
leather.  There  was  also  a  tall  pedestal  with  an 
undressed  lady  on  top,  and  several  big  pictures  in 
gold  frames  of  ladies  who  wore  very  few  clothes, 
and  who  sat,  looking  rather  cold,  in  gardens  like 
Battersea  Park. 

[86-S 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

"This  is  my  den,"  said  Danvers.  "How  do  you 
like  it?" 

"Charming,"  said  Beauty.  "But  I  don't  see  why 
you  want  such  a  big  den  all  to  yourself." 

1  don't  want  it  all  to  myself,"  said  Danvers, 
"but  I  can't  get  anybody  to  share  it  with  me.  Per- 
haps one  of  these  days  I  may  get  a  companion  to 
decorate  the  room." 

He  stood  looking  at  Beauty  and  smiling,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Anyhow,  it  is  good  to  have  you  here  this  after- 
noon. You  go  with  the  room  wonderfully  well." 

Beauty  turned  her  face  away  from  the  Beast's 
smiling  eyes,  and  said : 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  give  us  some  tea. 
I  am  sure  Nick  is  frightfully  hungry.  Aren't  you, 
Nick?" 

"Not  frightfully,"  said  Nick. 

For  the  first  time  Danvers  seemed  to  notice  Nick. 

"I  think  the  boy  had  better  have  tea  with  my 
man,  Johnson.  They  would  get  on  together  fa- 
mously." 

"No,"  said  Beauty,  in  a  sharp  voice.  "No,  I 
won't  allow  that.    Nick  must  stay  here." 

"Very  well,  dear  lady !"  said  Danvers  in  his  soft 
voice.  "I  only  want  to  make  everybody  happy. 
That's  all." 

He  touched  a  button  in  the  wall,  and  a  moment 
later  the  door  opened  very  quietly,  and  a  tall  young 

[87] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

man  with  a  swallow-tail  coat,  and  little  brass  but- 
tons on  his  waistcoat,  came  into  the  room  and  said : 
"Yes,  sir?" 

"Let's  have  some  tea  quickly,  Johnson.  And 
bring  some  cakes." 

Nick  wondered  if  Johnson  had  ever  learned  to 
smile,  and  whether  he  always  looked  so  very  solemn, 
as  if  he  were  in  mourning  for  somebody,  and 
whether  he  would  have  said:  "Yes,  sir"  just  in 
the  same  way  if  the  Beast  had  asked  him  to  bring 
in  some  crocodiles,  or  Aladdin's  magic  lamp,  or  any 
other  thing  not  very  easy  to  get.  He  came  in  so 
sadly  with  the  cakes  that  Nick  thought  he  must  be 
sorrowful  at  having  to  give  them  up.  Perhaps  he 
wanted  them  for  his  own  tea. 

"An  excellent  fellow,  Johnson,"  said  Danvers, 
when  the  man  had  left  the  room  again.  "He  never 
speaks  unless  he  is  spoken  to,  and  then  in  the  fewest 
possible  words." 

"How  awful!"  said  Beauty.  "I  can't  bear  silent 
people.    They  are  like  walking  ghosts." 

"Oh,  I  allow  pretty  ladies  to  talk  as  much  as 
they  like,"  said  Danvers,  "especially  if  they  have 
singing  voices  and  laughter  like  silver  bells." 

Nick,  who  was  listening  very  quietly,  knew  that 
Danvers  was  thinking  of  Beauty's  voice  and  of 
Beauty's  laughter,  and  he  knew  that  Beauty  knew 
what  Danvers  meant,  for  she  laughed  now  as  though 
little  silver  bells  were  ringing  in  her  throat,  and 
said : 

[88] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

"What  absurd  things  you  say!" 

"I  know,"  said  Danvers,  who  was  helping  Beauty 
to  some  sugar,  ''but  it  is  jolly  to  be  absurd  some- 
times, don't  you  think  ?  Don't  you  hate  people  who 
are  never  absurd?" 

"Yes,"  said  Beauty,  "they  make  life  very  dull." 

"And  dulness,"  said  Danvers,  "is  the  death  of 
life.  Adventure,  laughter,  love,  these  are  the  only 
things  that  make  life  endurable,  and  love  is  the 
greatest  of  these." 

"And  the  most  dangerous,"  said  Beauty. 

"Dangerous?  Why,  yes!  That  is  the  joy  of  it. 
Without  danger  love  also  becomes  a  dull  thing." 

"Hush!"  said  Beauty. 

Nick  saw  that  her  eyes  had  glanced  in  his  direc- 
tion, as  though  warning  Danvers  to  be  careful  of 
his  words.  He  knew  those  warning  glances  which 
Beauty  gave  when  Bristles  said  "Damitall,"  or  words 
which  small  boys  were  not  supposed  to  use. 

Danvers  laughed  in  his  throat,  and  rang  the  bell 
again,  so  that  the  man  Johnson  came  in,  as  sadly 
as  before. 

"Johnson,"  said  Danvers,  "will  you  kindly  en- 
tertain this  young  gentleman  with  your  most 
sprightly  conversation,  and  show  him  any  of  those 
interesting  things  which  you  may  collect  in  your 
spare  time." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnson. 

This  time  Beauty  did  not  protest,  and  Nick  took 
[89] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

hold  of  Johnson's  long,  cold  hand,  and  went  with 
him  into  another  room,  where  the  man  sat  Nick 
down  in  an  arm-chair  and  stood  in  front  of  him, 
and  winked  very  solemnly  with  his  left  eye  and 
said: 

"I  suppose  you  are  not  old  enough  to  smoke  a 
cigarette,  sir?" 

"No,"  said  Nick. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Johnson.  "But  perhaps  you 
would  not  object  to  me  enjoying  a  little  smoke?" 

"No,"  said  Nick. 

Mr.  Johnson  pulled  out  a  silver  case,  and  took 
out  a  cigarette,  lighted  it,  and  then,  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  stared  at  Nick  with  solemn  eyes. 
This  lasted  such  a  long  time  that  Nick  became  un- 
easy, and  shifted  in  his  seat. 

"Do  you  think  Beauty  will  be  very  long  with 
the  .  .  .  "  he  was  just  going  to  say  "the  Beast," 
when  he  stopped  himself  in  time,  and  said  "Mr. 
Danvers  ?" 

Johnson  thought  the  matter  over  for  quite  a  while, 
and  then  he  said: 

"And  who  may  Beauty  be,  young  gentleman?" 

"My  mother." 

Johnson  pondered  over  this  for  a  good  long  time, 
and  then  said: 

"Eh!     She  looks  a  beauty.     But  I  don't  expect 
she's  such  a  beauty  as  my  master." 
[90] 


I 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

"Do  you  think  he  is  a  beauty?"  asked  Nick,  much 
surprised. 

*'Oh,  he  is  a  rare  beauty,  he  is,"  said  Johnson, 
and  then  he  gave  another  solemn  wink  with  his  left 
eye. 

There  was  no  more  conversation  for  some  time, 
but  at  last  Nick  made  another  effort  to  break  the 
spell  of  Mr.  Johnson's  terrible  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  my  mother  will  be  long  with  your 
master  ?" 

Johnson  thought  the  question  out. 

"It  all  depends,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  never  can 
tell." 

Nick  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  big  clock  on 
the  wall.  Each  tick  seemed  a  minute.  He  hated 
the  Beast  worse  than  ever  for  keeping  his  mother 
such  a  long  time. 

"Can  you  show  me  anything,  please?"  he  said, 
in  a  rather  desperate  attempt  to  get  away  from  the 
arm-chair  in  which  he  was  imprisoned  under  the 
fixed  gaze  of  Mr.  Johnson. 

Mr.  Johnson  was  startled  by  the  question. 

He  looked  round  the  room,  as  though  searching 
for  something,  which  he  might  show,  but  there  was 
only  a  table  covered  with  brown  oil-cloth,  and  a 
horsehair  sofa,  and  three  horsehair  chairs,  and  some 
portraits  of  elderly  gentlemen  framed  in  dark  oak. 

"There  is  the  Sporting  Times,  sir,  if  it  is  any 
good  to  you." 

[91] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Do  you  mind  reading  some  out?"  said  Nick, 
rather  liking  the  name  of  the  paper,  which  seemed 
to  hint  at  adventure. 

"Certainly,  sir." 

Johnson  cleared  his  throat,  and  read  an  article 
on  the  front  page,  leaving  out  the  commas  and  full 
stops. 

Pretty  Polly  won  the  thousand  pound  race  in  clever 
style  and  his  trainer  felt  confident  that  a  pull  of  i8 
lb.  with  Dandy  Dick  would  enable  him  to  reverse 
the  Sandown  placings  while  Samuels  was  also  hope- 
ful of  beating  Flying  Dutchman  although  Pretty 
Polly  had  only  a  pound  advantage  with  the  Lewes 
horse  to  put  against  the  Sandown  beating  It  was  Dandy 
Dick  who  gave  the  winner  most  trouble  and  evidently 
Flying  Dutchman  has  been  over-rested  The  two 
Frenchmen  were  prominent  for  a  long  way  and 
Jeanne  d'Arc  once  raised  the  hopes  of  the  Comte  de 
Valois  but  retired  beaten  soon  afterward  Dandy 
Dick  is  a  very  beautiful  creature  .   .   . 

*'Is  it  a  fairy-tale?"  asked  Nick  at  this  stage  of 
the  story. 

Mr.  Johnson  permitted  himself  to  smile,  but  hid 
the  mistake  hurriedly  behind  his  hand. 

"Well,  sir,  these  sporting  papers  do  go  in  for 
fairy-tales  as  a  rule.  I  may  say  that  is  their  lead- 
ing characteristic." 

[92] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

"I  think  I  will  take  one  of  them  in,"  said  Nick, 
"if  they  are  not  too  expensive." 

Mr.  Johnson  showed  a  trifling  agitation. 

"If  I  may  be  so  bold,  sir,  I  should  earnestly  ad- 
vise you  not  to  patronize  these  papers  so  early  in 
life.  It  is  not  that  the  papers  themselves  are  very 
expensive,  but  the  effect  of  them  is — er — rather 
costly,  at  times." 

Nicholas  was  not  very  clear  as  to  the  meaning 
of  these  words,  but  he  did  not  inquire  further,  for 
at  that  moment  a  bell  rang  with  a  whirr  behind  his 
head,  and  Mr.  Johnson  put  down  the  paper  hurriedly. 

"I  expect  that's  for  you,  sir,"  he  said,  and  his 
guess  was  right,  for  Nicholas  was  sent  for  by 
Beauty,  and  found  her  looking  rather  hot,  as  though 
she  had  drunk  her  tea  before  it  had  got  cool. 

"Until  we  meet  again,"  said  Danvers. 

He  took  Beauty's  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips, 
and  then  patted  Nick  on  the  head  and  said  "Good 
little  laddie,"  as  though  he  were  a  dog. 

Beauty  was  very  silent  all  the  way  home,  and  kept 
smiling  to  herself,  as  though  amused  with  a  secret 
joke,  and  was  very  kind  and  nice  with  Bristles  when 
he  came  home  from  the  City.  Everything  seemed 
very  happy,  until  suddenly  at  supper  Bristles  said: 

"What  did  you  do  this  afternoon,  Beauty?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  thing,"  said  Beauty,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Nick  and  said  rather  quickly :  "You  look 
very  tired,  Sleepy-eyes!" 

[93] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

When  Nick  had  assured  her  that  he  was  not  a 
bit  sleepy,  Bristles  said: 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  usual  thing?" 

''Oh,  Nick  and  I  had  tea  with  some  friends." 

She  turned  to  Nick  again,  and  said,  more  hur- 
riedly than  before:  "I  am  sure  you  are  ready  for 
bed,  Mr.  Nick." 

But  Nick  was  not  a  bit  ready  for  bed.  He  was 
wondering  why  Beauty  had  said  "with  some 
friends."    Was  Mr.  Johnson  one  of  the  friends  ? 

"Which  friends?"  said  Bristles.  "Any  one  I 
know?" 

Beauty  suddenly  "flared  up,"  as  Polly  would  say, 
and  became  very  angry  with  Bristles. 
'  "Surely  you  don't  want  to  cross-question  me  as 
to  where  Nick  and  I  had  tea?    What  does  it  matter 
who  the  people  were?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  Bristles.  "I  just 
inquired  out  of  idle  curiosity." 

He  turned  to  Nick,  and  said:  ''Where  did  you 
go  to  tea,  old  man?" 

Nick  looked  across  at  Beauty,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  eyes  which  seemed  to  speak  to  him. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  her  eyes  said:  "Don't  tell, 
Nick!  don't  tell!" 

He  got  very  red  in  the  face,  and  there  was  a  big 
pain  in  his  heart.  He  knew  that,  not  even  when 
Beauty's  eyes  said  "Don't  tell,"  could  he  say  some- 
thing to  cheat  Bristles. 

[94] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BEAST 

Then  suddenly  Beauty  spoke: 

*lf  you  must  know,  we  had  tea  with  Danvers.'* 

There  was  a  great  silence  in  the  room,  and  then 
at  the  end  of  it  Bristles  said : 

''1  thought  you  had  given  up  that  man,  Beauty?" 

He  did  not  say  the  words  angrily,  but  with  a 
queer  break  in  his  voice. 

"I  do  not  give  up  my  friends  so  easily,"  said 
Beauty. 

Nothing  else  was  said  about  the  Beast,  but  when 
Beauty  put  Nicholas  to  bed,  he  stretched  out  his 
hands  and  pulled  her  head  down,  and  said : 

*'I  am  glad  you  told,  Beauty,  although  your  eyes 
said  *Don't  tell/  " 

She  understood  him,  and  a  great  wave  of  color 
came  into  her  face.  But  she  laughed  at  him  and 
rumpled  his  hair,  and  said: 

"What  a  fanciful  Nick  you  are!" 

Then  she  puffed  out  the  candle  and  went  out  of 
the  door. 

But  Nick  lay  awake  for  a  little  while,  listening  to 
the  voices  of  Beauty  and  Bristles,  which  never  ceased 
in  the  next  room  until  he  dropped  asleep. 


[95] 


CHAPTER  V 

BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

It  always  seemed  to  Nicholas  Barton  that  when 
Beauty  went  on  tour — he  knew  what  that  meant, 
after  questioning  Polly  until  her  head  ached — it  was 
the  beginning  of  the  unhappiness  which  spoiled  all 
the  great  game  of  life. 

Beauty  had  been  frightfully  excited  about  going 
away,  and  had  danced  about  the  flat  singing  and 
laughing,  while  she  and  Polly  packed  great  baskets 
full  of  dresses,  and  while  she  tried  to  remember  all 
the  things  which  she  had  forgotten.  She  was  al- 
ways remembering  something  else  which  she  could 
not  possibly  do  without,  and  even  on  the  very  last 
morning,  when  the  cab  was  waiting  outside  the 
street  door,  she  cried  out  to  Polly  that  she  must  take 
her  manicure  scissors  and  second-best  pair  of  slip- 
pers, and  the  little  silver  mirror  in  which  she  looked 
at  the  back  of  her  head.  These  things  had  to  be 
collected  and  stuffed  into  a  hand-bag  which  was  al- 
ready bulging  with  just-remembered  things. 

Bristles  was  strolling  about  in  a  moody  way,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  only  taking  his  hands  out 
of  his  pockets  to  fasten  up  the  baskets  and  to  strap 
up  the  boxes,  and  to  fetch  some  of  the  things  which 
Beauty  had  left  in  another  room. 
[96I 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

Nick  knew  that  Bristles  was  just  as  sad  as  he  was 
because  Beauty  was  going  away,  and  that  he  was 
afraid  of  the  loneHness  which  would  creep  into  the 
flat  when  all  the  baskets  had  been  packed  on  to  the 
cab  with  Beauty  inside. 

It  was  just  before  Polly  had  gone  to  fetch  the  cab 
that  Bristles  spoke  of  the  things  that  were  in  his 
heart.  It  was  when  he  bent  down  to  fasten  the  last 
box.    He  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  said : 

"I  hate  the  idea  of  this  tour  of  yours,  Beauty. 
Even  now  I  wish  to  goodness  you  could  back  out 
of  it." 

Beauty  was  arranging  her  hat  in  front  of  the  mir- 
ror. It  was  a  black  hat  with  a  little  white  bird 
perched  on  the  top  of  it,  and  Nick  had  never  seen 
such  a  beautiful  Beauty,  for  excitement  had  lighted 
the  fires  in  her  eyes,  and  had  deepened  the  colour  in 
her  cheeks.  She  laughed  at  Bristles  as  she  looked  at 
him  through  the  looking-glass. 

**It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  suggest  that.  Be- 
sides, you  know  we  need  the  money,  and  that  it  gives 
me  a  big  chance." 

"Hang  the  money!"  said  Bristles.  "1  would 
rather  see  you  starve  than  run  all  the  risks  of  an  ac- 
tress on  tour." 

He  spoke  with  a  sharp  pain  in  his  voice,  and  then 
he  strode  over  to  Beauty  as  she  turned  toward  him, 
and  took  her  by  the  wrists  and  said : 
[97] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Beauty,  you  promise  me  to  be  good — and  care- 
ful T' 

"Careful  of  what?'*  asked  Beauty,  releasing  her 
hands,  and  putting  her  hat  straight  again. 

"Careful  of  your  good  name  and  of  mine.  You 
know  how  incautious  you  are,  how  your  spirit  of  fun 
and  adventure  leads  you  to  take  risks.  ...  I  am 
afraid.** 

"Afraid?" 

Beauty  gave  a  rather  shrill  little  laugh.  "Afraid 
of  what,  my  timid  Bristles  ?*' 

"I  am  afraid  of  letting  you  go  alone  among  all 
those  loose-minded  people,  in  all  those  theatrical 
lodging-houses  where  you  have  no  husband  to  pro- 
tect you,  and  look  after  you." 

"Thank  you!'*  said  Beauty,  very  haughtily.  "I 
am  well  able  to  look  after  myself.** 

"I  am  not  so  sure,**  said  Bristles.  "Sometimes 
you  have  not  shown  yourself  able  to  look  after  your- 
self.'* 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  again,  and  kissed  it  and 
said: 

"I  don*t  want  to  play  the  Puritan,  Beauty.  I 
know  that  you  have  a  laughter-loving  heart,  and  that 
it  has  been  dull  for  you  sometimes  here,  and  that  I 
am  a  gloomy  dog,  unable  to  give  you  all  the  things 
you  want,  and  all  the  things  you  ought  to  have ;  but 
I  want  you  to  remember  my  love  for  you,  and  little 
Nick,  here.  When  people  flatter  you,  when  they  are 
[98] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

pajang  yon  homage,  when  you  are  laughing  and  jok- 
ing after  the  theatre,  think  of  this  little  fiat  here, 
where  your  man  and  your  boy  are  waiting  for  you 
and  longing  for  you.'' 

Beauty  put  her  hands  on  her  husband's  shoulders, 
and  bowed  her  head  a  little  so  that  her  forehead 
touched  his  lips. 

''You  funny  old  Bristles!"  she  said. 

Then  she  raised  her  head  and  smiled  into  his  eyes. 

"I  will  try  to  keep  on  the  safe  side  of  the  danger- 
line.     You  need  not  be  afraid." 

Then  Polly  came  in  to  say  the  cab  was  waiting, 
and  Beauty  gave  Nick  a  great  hug,  and  promised  to 
bring  him  back  no  end  of  toys,  and  then  there  was  a 
great  bustle  and  excitement  as  the  baskets  and  bags 
were  carried  down  five  flights  of  stone  steps.  Nick 
carried  the  smallest  of  them,  feeling  very  proud  of 
his  strength  as  he  hoisted  it  on  to  his  shoulder  and 
staggered  down  the  stairway,  dropping  it  only  at 
the  top  of  the  last  flight,  so  that  it  rolled  easily  to 
the  bottom. 

*'Drat  the  child !"  cried  Beauty,  "I  am  sure  he  has 
smashed  my  best  scent  bottle." 

She  raised  her  hand  as  though  to  smack  him,  but 
then,  seeing  that  his  eyes  were  beginning  to  fill  with 
tears,  she  rumpled  his  hair  and  said : 

"It  can't  be  helped.  Cheer  up,  Nick,  I  shall  soon 
be  back." 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead, 
[99] 


f 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

waved  her  hand  to  Bristles,  and  in  another  moment 
was  smiling-  from  the  inside  of  the  cab,  which  went 
off  with  a  jerk  and  took  her  away  to  that  great  ad- 
venture which  was  called  "on  tour." 

Bristles  and  Nick  stood  looking  after  the  cab  until 
it  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  street.  Beauty  did 
not  put  her  head  out  for  a  last  glance  at  them.  Then 
Bristles  gave  a  big  sigh  which  was  something  like 
a  groan,  and  put  his  hand  on  Nick's  shoulder,  and 
said : 

"Well,  old  man,  it's  time  for  you  to  go  to  school, 
and  for  n^  to  go  to  the  City.  You  and  I  must  do 
our  job  while  Beauty  is  away.  We've  got  to  keep 
the  pot  boiling." 

Nick's  lower  lip  was  trembling.  A  little  fountain 
of  water  seemed  to  be  bubbling  up  from  his  heart  to 
run  out  of  his  eyes.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  that 
Beauty  had  gone  away,  and  the  words  which  he  had 
heard  Bristles  say  made  him  feel  afraid  because  Bris- 
tles was  afraid.  It  was  clear  that  some  great  danger 
might  threaten  Beauty  in  the  adventure  of  "On 
Tour."  She  said  that  she  would  try  to  keep  on  the 
safe  side  of  the  danger-line.  But  supposing  she 
stepped  on  to  the  wrong  side,  what  then?  Perhaps 
she  might  be  gobbled  up  by  some  beastly  monster, 
or  taken  prisoner  by  some  Enemy.  Bristles  had  said 
he  was  afraid  because  he  would  not  be  there  to  pro- 
tect her.  Protect  her  from  what?  Nick  would  not 
be  there  either.    Neither  Bristles  nor  Nick  could  help 

[lOO] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

tlieir  Beauty  in  distress.  It  was  this  thought  more 
than  the  thought  of  the  lonehness  that  would  be  in 
the  flat  which  made  the  fountain  of  water  bubble  up 
in  his  heart,  and  try  to  run  out  of  his  eyes.  But  he 
turned  the  tap  off  with  a  jerk  when  he  heard  Joan 
Darracott's  voice  calling  him  through  the  railing  of 
the  ground-floor  flat. 

*'Nick,  you  will  be  late  for  school.  And  I  have 
been  waiting  for  you  ever  so  long.  Why  has  your 
Beauty  gone  away  with  so  many  baskets  on  the  cab  ? 
Is  she  taking  people's  washing  home?" 

It  cheered  Nick  up  to  hear  Joan's  voice  asking  so 
many  questions  which  he  could  not  possibly  answer 
all  together. 

"I'm  ready !"  he  shouted,  and  he  was  glad  that  he 
had  gulped  back  his  tears  so  qui.ckly  that  Joan  couJd 
not  see  them.  And  yet  her '  sharp  eyes  saw  tjiat 
something  was  the  matter  with'liiniv>  fc?f  on  tlW  wiy 
to  school  she  said : 

*'You  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  have  the 
measles  or  something. '* 

"What  sort  of  a  look  is  that  ?"  asked  Nick,  trying 
very  hard  to  look  as  if  there  were  no  ache  inside 
his  heart. 

"A  flabby,  dabby,  babby  look,"  said  Joan. 

"Rot !''  said  Nick.  And  after  that  denial  he  whis- 
ked the  merriest  tune  he  could  think  of.  But  it  was 
ot  a  success. 

[lOl] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

*lf  I  couldn't  whistle  better  than  that/'  said  Joan, 
*'I  should  give  up  trying." 

''You  can't  whistle  at  all,"  said  Nick. 

So  they  began  one  of  their  friendly  quarrels,  and 
it  was  very  comforting. 

But  Joan  Darracott  was  not  always  handy  to  com- 
fort him  with  her  quarrels,  and  there  were  times  in 
the  flat,  especially  in  the  evenings  before  bed,  when 
his  heart  cried  out  for  Beauty,  and  he  wanted  her 
with  a  great  aching  want.  For  it  wasn't  a  bit  the 
same  thing  when  Polly  tucked  him  up  and  said: 

Pleasant  dreams  and  sweet  repose, 
Mind  the  fleas  don't  bite  your  toes! 

Polly  was  all  right  in  her  way.  Polly  was  part 
of  the  furniture  of  ;Nick's  life,  and  he  had  grown  so 
used  to  her  that  he  could  not  even  imagine  a  world 
without. a- Polly.  But  though  he  liked  the  sound  of 
her  voice,  and  her  way  of  saying  things,  which  was 
pure  Cockney,  and  though  to  make  up  for  Beauty's 
absence  she  cooked  him  special  tarts  and  let  him  eat 
more  than  was  good  for  him  (which  he  liked  very 
much),  and  spared  a  lot  of  her  own  time  to  play 
''Beggar-my-Neighbour"  and  **Snap,"  and  generally 
let  him  win  when  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  she  did 
not  take  away  his  need  of  Beauty  nor  fill  up  the  hole 
in  his  loneliness.  Nor  did  Bristles  fill  up  this  great 
gap,  though  after  Beauty  had  gone  on  tour  he  came 
home  earlier  from  the  City,  and  made  as  many  jokes 

[  102] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

as  he  coitld  think  of,  to  make  some  laughter  in  the 
flat,  and  invented  all  sorts  of  new  games,  and  toki 
funny  tales  over  the  dinner  table  when  he  sat  at  one 
end  and  Nick  sat  at  the  other,  with  Beauty*s  empty 
chair  drawn  up  on  the  side  nearest  the  door.  At 
those  dinner-table  talks  Bristles  let  Nick  ask  as  many 
questions  as  he  liked,  and  answered  them  as  simply 
as  he  could,  so  that  it  seemed  to  Nick  as  if  he  were 
as  old  as  his  father,  or  as  if  his  father  was  as  young 
as  he  was.  At  least  there  was  not  that  great  wide 
space  between  them  which  is  generally  between  a 
grown-up  and  a  small  boy,  and  Nick  learned  to  know 
his  father  better  than  he  had  ever  known  him  before, 
and  made  many  new  discoveries.  He  discovered 
that  Bristles  hated  being  Something  in  the  City,  and 
that  he  would  much  rather  have  been  an  engineer  on 
a  man-of-war,  or  a  cow-boy  in  the  Wild  West,  or  a 
pirate  on  the  Spanish  Main. 

But,  as  he  said  one  day,  "when  once  you  become 
Something  in  the  City,  you  can  never  be  anything 
else." 

Nick  made  up  his  mind  then  and  there  that  he 
would  never  on  any  account  be  Something  in  the 
City,  but  he  did  not  like  to  say  so  out  loud,  because 
he  did  not  want  to  make  Bristles  feel  more  sorry  for 
himself  than  he  was  already. 

He  also  learned  that  Bristles  had  read  almost 
every  book  that  had  ever  been  written,  except  the 
new  books,  which  were  no  good  at  all  because  they 
[103] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

were  only  copies  of  the  old  books,  and  that  when- 
ever he  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  to  be  Something 
in  the  City  any  longer,  because  he  hated  it  so  much, 
he  just  took  down  one  of  his  favourite  books,  like 
**The  Three  Musketeers,"  or  'The  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth,"  or  "A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  and  immediate- 
ly he  was  happy  again,  because  he  seemed  to  be  one 
of  the  people  in  the  books,  going  through  their  ad- 
ventures and  having  no  end  of  fun. 

''After  all,  Nick,"  said  Bristles,  "it  doesn't  very 
much  matter  if  one  is  a  poor  man,  so  long  as  one  can 
get  good  books,  for  these  introduce  one  to  the  best 
society  in  the  world,  and  you  can  become  very 
friendly  with  all  the  best  fellows  that  ever  lived." 

"Like  Hop  o'  my  Thumb,  and  the  Little  Tailor, 
and  Dick  Whittington  ?"  asked  Nick. 

"Yes,  all  sorts  of  good  chaps  like  that.  Only  my 
favorites  are  fellows  like  Falstaff,  and  Prince  Hal, 
and  Hamlet,  and  Mercutio,  and  Don  Quixote,  and 
D'Artagnan,  and  Sam  Weller,  and  Quentin  Dur- 
ward,  and  a  lot  of  other  gallant  gentlemen  whom 
you  will  get  to  know  one  of  these  days,  if  you  are 
fond  of  reading." 

Another  thing  which  Nick  learned  about  his  father 
was  that  he  was  very  keen  on  old  things — old  build- 
ings, and  old  furniture,  and  old  pictures,  and  any 
old  thing  which  is  kept  in  a  museum.  It  seemed  that 
these  old  things  could  tell  him  tales  about  them- 
selves. At  least,  when  Bristles  took  Nick  to  the 
[104] 


BEAU"  Y  AND  NICK 

museums,  which  ha.."  become  a  habit  on  a  Saturday 
afternoon  now  that  beauty  was  on  tour,  he  knew  all 
about  the  private  Vfe  of  old  leather  boots  which  had 
once  belonged  t'  ■]  a  soldier  in  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  ;bout  the  adventures  of  an  iron 
helmet  which  had  been  worn  by  one  of  the  Black 
Prince's  knights,  and  all  about  the  love-story  of  two 
earthen  pitchers  which  had  been  made  when  the 
Romans  were  in  England,  and,  indeed,  all  about  the 
life  of  thousands  of  things  which  had  lived  in  the 
houses  of  people  hundreds  of  years  ago.  The  idea 
came  into  Nick's  head  one  day  that  Bristles  must 
have  been  born  with  a  special  kind  of  memory,  so 
that  he  remembered  all  the  things  which  had  been 
done  by  his  father  and  grandfather  and  great-grand- 
father, and  by  all  the  fathers  that  had  gone  before 
him.  And  then  another  idea  jumped  into  his  head, 
that  Bristles,  whose  real  name  was  Nicholas  Barton, 
just  like  his  own,  was  really  the  same  person  as  the 
Sir  Nicholas  Barton  whose  portrait,  with  a  white 
ruff  around  his  neck,  and  with  a  velvet  doublet  cov- 
ered with  jewels,  hung  in  one  of  the  great  galleries 
which  they  visited  on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Be- 
cause this  Sir  Nicholas  Barton  had  done  most  of  the 
things  which  Bristles  would  have  liked  to  have  done. 
He  had  been  a  pirate  on  the  Spanish  Main,  and  he 
had  fought  through  great  adventures  in  the  Nether- 
lands (wherever  they  might  be),  and  he  had  gone 
out  to  the  New  World  and  had  fought  with  Red 
r  105  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Indians  in  a  country  called  Virginia,  and  afterward 
had  come  home  to  write  about  the  things  he  had  seen 
and  done.  Nick  noticed  that  there  was  something 
in  the  face  of  Sir  Nicholas  Barton  which  w^as  like 
Bristles.  Bristles  had  the  same  s  :^ight  nose  and 
high,  bald  forehead,  and  eyes  that  had  a  far-away 
look,  as  if  searching  for  the  New  World.  But  there 
the  likeness  ended,  for  Sir  Nicholas  had  a  brown 
beard  and  moustache,  and  Bristles  shaved  all  the 
hairs  off  his  face  every  time  they  poked  their  heads 
up  in  the  night. 

''You  are  awfully  like  him.  Bristles!"  said  Nick, 
gazing  from  the  portrait  to  the  living  face. 

Bristles  looked  pleased. 

"Think  so,  old  man?  I  should  like  to  think  so, 
because  he  was  one  of  my  ancestors." 

''What's  an  ancestor?"  asked  Nick. 

"One  of  one's  relations  a  long  time  ago,  from 
whom  one  gets  one's  temper,  the  shape  of  one's  nose, 
the  gout,  and  other  little  things  of  that  kind." 

Nick  pondered  over  this,  and  some  time  after- 
ward delivered  judgment. 

"It's  rotten  to  think  that  some  ancestor  one  never 
knew  should  make  one  get  into  bad  tempers  when 
one  doesn't  want  to.    Perhaps  that  accounts  for  it." 

"Accounts  for  what?"  asked  Bristles. 

"My  getting  into  bad  tempers  when  I  don't  want 
to,  and  Joan  Darracott  doing  all  the  things  she  didn't 
ought  to  do,  and  Beauty  liking  the  people  she  ought 
[io6] 


I 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

to  hate,  and  you  doing  the  work  which  you  weren't 
made  for.  Perhaps  if  we  had  had  different  ances- 
tors it  would  all  have  been  different/' 

"Exactly,"  said  Bristles.  "And  that's  the  reason 
why  we  ought  to  try  as  hard  as  possible  to  do  the 
right  things  instead  of  the  wrong  things,  and  be  the 
right  kind  of  people  instead  of  the  wrong  kind  of 
people,  because  we  are  the  ancestors  of  those  people 
who  will  come  after  us.    See?" 

"Yes,  but  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  Nick,  "that 
however  hard  we  try,  we  may  be  put  all  wrong  by  a 
great-grandfather,  or  some  old  thing  like  that." 

"Yes,  one's  great-grandfather  is  the  devil  of  a 
nuisance,"  said  Bristles,  laughing  as  though  he  saw 
a  joke  somewhere. 

But  Nick  did  not  see  any  joke  in  that  conversa- 
tion, and  he  was  always  on  the  look-out  for  Sir 
Nicholas  Barton  in  the  character  of  Bristles. 

He  found  it  in  small  things,  such  as  the  bold  way 
in  which  Bristles  slashed  off  the  top  of  his  egg  at 
breakfast,  and  in  the  way  he  wore  a  felt  hat  on  the 
side  of  his  head  after  he  came  home  on  Saturday 
afternoon  and  put  off  his  chimney-pot  hat,  and  the 
way  he  carried  his  stick  (as  though  it  had  been  a 
sharp  sword)  when  he  went  for  a  walk  in  the  park. 
He  also  found  something  of  Sir  Nicholas  Barton, 
the  Elizabethan  pirate  and  adventurer,  in  his  own 
character,  when  he  went  searching  for  grizzly  bears 
among  the  trees  in  the  park,  and  when  he  pretended 
[107] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

that  Joan  Darracott  was  a  Red  Indian  princess,  and 
fell  madly  in  love  with  her,  and  threatened  to  scalp 
her  (with  the  sharp  edge  of  his  school  ruler),  if  she 
did  not  promise  to  be  his  wife. 

"If  you  touch  my  hair  again,"  said  Joan  Darracott 
(who  had  not  forgotten  the  loss  of  a  golden  hand- 
ful), "I  will  poke  your  eyes  out  with  the  end  of  my 
parasol.    So  there!'' 

''Well,  will  you  promise  to  be  my  wife?"  asked 
Nick,  still  brandishing  his  ruler. 

''I  will,  if  you  promise  to  buy  me  some  chocolates 
with  bits  of  chestnut  inside.     You  know  the  sort." 

Nick  dropped  his  ruler,  and  felt  in  all  his  pockets. 

/'I  haven't  a  single  halfpenny!"  he  said  ruefully. 

*'Then  I  won't  promise  to  be  your  wife,"  said  Joan 
Darracott.     *'Good-moming." 

And  twirling  her  ridiculous  little  sunshade,  she 
went  off  to  her  music  lesson. 

It  was  that  incident  which  made  him  suggest  to 
Bristles  that  one  of  Joan  Darracott's  ancestors  must 
have  been  like  Bloody  Mary,  of  whose  alleged  cruel- 
ties he  had  just  been  reading  in  a  school  history 
book  which  ought  to  have  known  better.  But  Bris- 
tles was  not  in  a  mood  for  talking  about  ancestors 
that  morning.  Looking  through  the  letters  which 
had  just  been  thrust  through  the  box,  he  said  rather 
anxiously: 

'It's  strange  there's  nothing  from  Beauty  again  I" 

During  the  first  two  or  three  weeks  of  her  adven- 
[  io8  ] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

ture  on  tour  Beauty  had  sent  several  letters  and 
quite  a  lot  of  postcards  written  in  a  big  scrawly  hand- 
writing with  crosses  after  her  love  to  Nick  which 
Bristles  handed  over  to  him  so  that  he  could  put  them 
to  his  lips,  which  was  the  next  best  thing  (though 
not  a  very  good  best)  to  getting  the  real  kisses  from 
Beauty's  lips.  Bristles  read  out  bits  of  her  letters 
over  the  breakfast  table. 

It  is  immensely  good  fun,  though  frightfully  hard 
work.  .  .  .  The  show  is  a  great  success.  The  Gods 
cheered  themselves  hoarse  after  the  jewel  scene.  .  .  . 
The  company  is  pretty  decent  on  the  whole,  though 
I  must  confess  that  there  are  some  incurable  bound- 
ers among  us.  Valentine  St.  Clair  is  absolutely  the 
last  thing  in  vulgarity.  Fast  is  not  the  word  for  her. 
She  exceeds  the  speed  limit  all  the  time.  .  .  .  The- 
atrical lodging-houses  in  north-country  towns  are 
enough  to  wring  tears  of  anguish  from  a  laughing 
hyena.  Oh,  the  squalor  and  the  dirt  of  them!  Oh, 
the  evil  character  and  wicked  ugliness  and  fiendish 
subtleties  of  the  lodging-house  landladies,  who  would 
cheat  a  blind  widow  out  of  her  last  mite,  and  steal  the 
gilt  oflF  a  piece  of  gingerbread !  .  .  .  We  had  a  merry 
supper-party  last  night,  after  the  show,  and  did  not 
tumble  into  bed  until  the  sunlight  streamed  through 
the  windows.  I  smoked  too  many  cigarettes,  and 
have  a  mouth  like  a  factory  chimney.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
tremendously  virtuous  and  as  demure  as  a  Puritan 
maid,  and  there  is  so  much  hard  work  that  there  is 
very  little  time  for  frivolity  or — rash  adventures. 
[109] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

So  be  easy  in  your  mind.  I  am  getting  a  great  hand 
at  Bridge,  which  we  play  in  the  trains  from  one  town 
to  another.  Yesterday  I  won  fifty  shilHngs,  and  spent 
it  on  a  new  hat,  which  would  capture  the  heart  of  a 
hermit  if  he  met  it  with  me  in  the  desert.  .  .  .  Give 
my  love  to  Polly,  and  tell  her  to  feed  you  up.  I  miss 
little  Nick  most  frightfully  at  nights,  when  I  put  my 
head  on  my  pillow  and  have  time  to  think.  .  .  .  Dear 
old  Bristles,  I  expect  you  are  glad  to  have  a  rest  from 
my  teasing  and  my  tempers,  and  all  the  naughtiness 
which  is  in  this  wild  heart  of  mine.  I  cannot  help 
it  being  wild,  can  I?  It's  how  one  is  born,  and  Fate 
seems  to  drag  one  along  by  the  hair.  .   .   . 

Your  Loving  Beauty. 

Such  letters  as  that,  written  just  like  Beauty  spoke 
(so  that  when  Bristles  read  them  out  Nick  seemed  to 
hear  her  voice  behind  the  words  and  her  laugh 
between  the  sentences),  came  several  days  a  week 
during  the  first  weeks  of  her  tour,  then  dropped  off 
a  little,  and  then  were  followed  by  postcards  with 
just  a  big  scrawly  line  or  two,  saying:  "Off  to 
Rugby,"  or  "Going  Birmingham  to-morrow,"  or 
"Raining  cats  and  dogs  in  Leamington."  But  now 
for  more  than  a  week  there  came  neither  letters  nor 
postcards,  so  that  every  morning  after  the  postman's 
knock  Bristles  said :  "It  is  strange  there  is  nothing 
from  Beauty,"  and  the  lines  which  made  a  crow's 
claw  on  his  forehead  became  deeper  and  deeper.  At 
night,  after  Nick  had  been  tucked  up  in  bed,  he  heard 
Bristles  pacing  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  like  an 
[no] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

animal  in  a  cage,  and  he  was  not  nearly  so  chatty 
at  the  breakfast-table  the  next  day,  and  forgot  to  tell 
funny  stories  in  the  evening  when  Nick  sat  at  one 
end  of  the  table  and  he  sat  at  the  other,  with  Beauty's 
empty  chair  on  the  side  nearest  the  door. 

At  last  one  Friday  evening  Bristles  said  all  of  a 
sudden,  as  though  the  idea  had  just  jumped  into  his 
head: 

''Look  here,  Nick,  old  man,  what  do  you  say  to 
going  on  a  surprise  visit  to  Beauty?" 

Nick  did  not  say  anything,  but  gave  a  great  shout, 
and  clapped  his  hands. 

''She's  in  a  place  called  Canterbury,"  said  Bristles, 
and  we  could  run  down  there  to-morrow  and  spend 
the  week-end  and  get  back  in  time  for  school  and 
work  on  Monday.    How  is  that  for  an  idea?" 

It  seemed  to  Nick  a  glorious  idea,  and  the  glory  of 
it  was  great  when  he  carried  his  own  little  bag  to 
the  station  next  morning,  alongside  Bristles,  who 
was  carrying  a  bigger  bag,  and  sat  in  the  corner  of 
a  third-class  carriage  with  Bristles  in  the  opposite 
corner,  and  a  sailor  smoking  a  clay  pipe  in  the  third 
corner,  and  an  old  clergyman  reading  a  little  black 
book  in  the  fourth  corner.  The  train  puffed  out  of 
the  station,  and  Nick  listened  to  the  noise  of  the  pis- 
ton rods  making  a  jerky  kind  of  song,  which  seemed 
to  say,  "Hurry  up  there,  hurry  up  there!"  as  if  the 
train  were  frightfully  anxious  to  get  to  Canterbury 
because  Beauty  was  there.  Then  he  looked  out  of 
[in] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

the  windows  and  watched  the  fields  fly  past,  and  lit- 
tle villages  from  which  church  spires  stuck  up  like 
arrows  pointing  to  the  sky,  and  he  saw  boys  and 
girls  running  down  country  lanes  on  their  way  to 
school,  and  cows  staring  up  at  the  passing  train,  and 
old  women  standing  at  their  cottage  doors  like  the 
old  witches  in  "Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,"  and  a  thou- 
sand other  pictures  of  life  in  the  sunlight  of  a  sum- 
mer's day,  whirling  past  the  carriage  windows  so 
quickly  that  his  eyes  could  hardly  catch  them  quick 
enough.  The«  greatness  and  the  splendor  of  the  big 
world  seemed  to  lift  Nick's  soul  out  of  his  body. 
This  was  a  great  adventure!  His  spirit  went  faster 
than  the  train.  It  leaped  ahead  of  the  train  into 
Beauty's  arms.  The  thought  of  seeing  Beauty  again 
made  him  want  to  shout  out  and  sing,  but  he  kept  his 
mouth  shut  because  of  the  sailor  smoking  a  clay 
pipe,  and  winking  every  time  he  caught  Nick's  eye, 
and  because  of  the  clergyman,  who  looked  up  from 
his  little  black  book  to  stare  at  Nick  through  the 
spectacles  on  his  nose. 

At  last  the  train  stopped  at  Canterbury,  and  Nick 
walked  with  Bristles  through  streets  of  houses  which 
k)oked  like  the  pictures  in  one  of  his  fairy-tale  books, 
with  pointed  roofs  and  windows  that  bulged  out 
over  the  doorways,  and  window-panes  like  green 
bull's-eyes,  and  walls  propped  up  with  great  oak 
beams.  There  were  grinning  goblins  carved  in  stone 
at  the  corners  of  little  old  churches  which  had  been 

[1121 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

built  between  the  little  old  houses,  and  Nick  held  his 
breath  and  opened  his  eyes  as  wide  as  they  would  go 
when  he  looked  up  at  a  church  bigger  than  any 
church  he  had  ever  seen,  with  great  walls  like  those 
of  a  giant's  castle,  and  tremendous  windows  w^hich 
seemed  to  shut  out  the  light,  and  sloping  roofs  al- 
most as  high  as  the  clouds. 

''Canterbury  Cathedral,"  said  Bristles,  "that's 
where  Thomas  a  Becket  was  murdered  by  the  bad 
knights.  Do  you  remember?  But  we  must  find 
Beauty  before  we  see  all  the  sights." 

''Yes,  I  want  Beauty  first,"  said  Nick.  "How 
shall  we  find  her?" 

Bristles  put  the  bags  in  charge  of  an  old  gentle- 
man who  sat  in  an  old  chair  in  the  hall  of  an  old 
inn  called  "The  Fleur  de  Lys,"  and  they  set  out 
again  to  find  Beauty.  She  was  not  easy  to  find, 
and  they  lost  their  way  several  times  in  narrow  al- 
leys where  the  houses  were  so  close  together  that 
people  could  shake  hands  with  each  other  out  of 
the  opposite  windows.  But  at  last  they  came  to  the 
back  door  of  a  building  called  the  Theatre  Royal, 
and  Bristles  said : 

"Perhaps  Beauty  is  here,  but  if  she  isn't  we  shall 
find  out  where  she  is." 

Nick  made  a  little  prayer  in  his  heart  that  Beauty 
might  be  there,  for  he  was  getting  very  tired  of 
waiting  for  her. 

Bristles  spoke  to  a  very  fat  and  very  grumpy- 

[113] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

looking  man  who  sat  in  a  small  office  reading  a  pink 
paper,  with  a  pot  of  beer  at  his  elbow,  in  case  kis 
reading  made  him  thirsty. 

"Is  Miss  Vivian  at  the  theatre  ?"  asked  Bristles — 
much  to  the  surprise  of  Nick,  who  had  expected  him 
to  ask  for  Beauty. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  fat  man  looked  up 
from  his  pink  paper  and  said,  "Eh?" 

Bristles  repeated  his  question. 

"She  is  and  she  ain't,"  said  the  man,  and  then, 
as  if  this  effort  to  speak  had  made  him  very 
thirsty,  he  took  a  big  drink  out  of  his  pot  of  beer. 

Bristles  spoke  to  him  sharply. 

"Is  she  here,  or  is  she  not  here?" 

"She  is  and  she  ain't,"  said  the  man.  "That  is 
to  say,  she  is  here  as  long  as  this  week's  show  is 
here,  but  she  ain't  here  at  the  present  time,  because 
the  show  don't  begin  till  half  past  two." 

The  man  made  strange  noises  in  his  throat,  which 
Nick  understood  to  be  his  manner  of  laughing. 

"Can  you  give  me  her  private  address?"  asked 
Bristles. 

"Not  for  quids,"  said  the  man.  "It's  as  much  as 
my  job  is  worth  to  give  any  lady's  private  address." 

He  took  up  the  pot  of  beer  and  drained  it  to  the 
dregs,  and  said  "Ah !"  when  he  put  it  down  again, 
as  though  he  felt  better. 

"But  I  am  her  husband,"  said  Bristles,  "and  this 
is  her  little  boy." 

[114] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

The  fat  man  stared  at  Bristles  and  Nick,  as  though 
he  had  just  seen  them  for  the  first  time. 

''Oh,  you're  Miss  Vivian's  'usband,  and  that's  'er 
little  boy?  Well,  now,  'oo  'd  'ave  thought  it? 
Blest  if  it  don't  surprise  me,  though  I  'ave  grown  old 
in  the  theatrical  profession." 

Bristles  looked  very  angry.  Nick  saw  tliat  his 
mouth  had  tightened  up,  which  was  always  a  sign 
of  Bristles  being  angry. 

''Look  here,  my  man,"  he  said,  "kindly  give  me 
Miss  Vivian's  address,  and  keep  a  civil  tongue  in 
your  head." 

The  fat  man  made  queer  noises  in  his  throat  again. 

"My  orders  is  to  give  no  address  to  no  one.  Not 
even  to  'usbands  in  search  of  their  wives,  not  even 
to  little  boys  in  search  of  their  muvvers." 

Bristles  turned  on  his  heel,  and  said :  "Come  on, 
Nick.     The  man  is  a  fool." 

He  went  a  little  way  out  of  the  courtyard,  but  the 
fat  man  called  after  him: 

"A  fool,  am  I?  Well,  there's  other  fools  about, 
and  /  'aven't  married  an  actress  with  a  private  ad- 
dress." 

Bristles  took  Nick's  hand,  and  Nick  felt  that  his 
father's  hand  had  suddenly  gone  cold. 

"Can't  we  find  Beauty,  then  ?"  said  Nick.  His  voice 
trembled,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  day  departed  from 
his  spirit.  H  they  couldn't  find  Beauty  everything 
would  be  spoiled. 

[115] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

But  Bristles  reassured  him. 

"We  shall  find  her  all  right,"  he  said.  "She  is 
sure  to  come  to  the  stage  door  before  the  matinee. 
Let's  go  and  get  a  bit  of  lunch." 

But  while  they  were  on  their  way  back  to  the 
Fleur  de  Lys  to  get  this  bit  of  lunch,  a  strange  thing 
happened.  Bristles  was  still  holding  Nick's  hand  as 
they  walked  along,  and  suddenly  Nick  felt  his  hand 
gripped  so  hard  that  he  almost  cried  out,  and  he 
was  dragged  back  into  the  doorway  of  one  of  the 
old  houses  with  windows  that  bulged  out  into  the 
street.  He  saw  that  Bristles  had  become  very  white 
in  the  face,  as  if  he  felt  ill,  and  his  eyes  had  a 
frightened  look  in  them. 

*'Good  God!"  said  Bristles  in  a  queer  voice. 

Just  as  he  said  that  Nick  caught  sight  of  Beauty. 
She  was  walking  very  slowly  along  the  pavement  in 
front  of  them,  with  her  hand  on  a  man's  arm,  who 
was  the  other  side  of  her  so  that  Nick  could  not 
see  his  face.  Beauty  was  talking  and  laughing,  with 
her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  so  that  she  looked  up 
into  the  man's  face.  She  was  in  her  white  summer 
dress  made  of  lace,  with  a  pink  petticoat  underneath, 
and  she  wore  a  straw  hat  turned  up  on  one  side  so 
as  to  show  a  bunch  of  roses.  She  was  so  beautiful 
that  people  turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed,  with 
her  frock  held  up  above  her  petticoat  and  with  her 
high-heeled  shoes  tripping  along  the  pavement.  Sud- 
denlv  she  moved  a  little  on  one  side,  to  let  a  butcher- 
[ii6] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

boy  pass,  and  then  Nick  saw  the  man  whose  arm 
Beauty  had  been  holding.     It  was  the  Beast. 

Without  thinking  of  the  Beast  or  of  anybody  else 
in  the  world  but  Beauty,  Nick  slipped  his  hand  away 
from  Bristles,  darted  from  beneath  the  doorway,  and 
with  a  loud  cry  of  "Beauty"  ran  forward  to  her  and 
clasped  her  about  the  waist. 

Beauty  was  startled.  She  was  so  startled  that 
for  a  moment,  at  the  sight  of  Nick,  she  became  as 
white  in  the  face  as  the  whiteness  of  her  summer 
frock.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of  "Nick!"'  and  then 
stared  round  in  a  scared  way,  so  that  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  face  of  Bristles  looking  out  from  the 
doorway.  It  seemed  quite  a  long  time  that  the 
husband  and  wife  stood  looking  at  each  other,  with- 
out moving  or  speaking  any  word.  Danvers  stood 
on  one  side.  He  too  had  been  startled  by  the  sudden 
appearance  of  Nick.  His  eyes  also  had  gone  search- 
ing round  until  they  had  found  the  face  of  Bristles 
in  the  doorway.  Now  he  stood  looking  from  one 
to  another,  stroking  his  moustache  in  a  careless  way, 
and  hiding  a  little  smile  beneath  his  hand. 

"Gk)d  bless  the  child !"  said  Beauty  at  last.  "Where 
did  you  spring  from?" 

She  stooped  down  to  kiss  him,  and  all  the  white- 
ness in  her  face  changed  to  a  deep  rose-color. 

"We  came  in  a  train  from  Battersea  Park,"  said 
Nick,  "and  Bristles  and  I  have  been  searching  for 
you  everywhere." 

[117] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Well,  you  have  found  me  now,"  said  Beauty. 

Bristles  had  come  slowly  forward,  and  did  not 
seem  a  bit  glad  to  see  Beauty,  though  he  had  come 
such  a  long  way  to  see  her.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and 
said: 

"I  am  sorry  I  did  not  give  you  warning  of  my 
visit.    Perhaps  Nick  and  I  are  in  the  way/' 

"Why  should  you  be  in  the  way?''  asked  Beauty, 
with  an  attempt  at  gaiety,  which  failed  rather  when 
her  eyes  wandered  to  Danvers,  who  still  stood  twist- 
ing up  his  pointed  moustache. 

At  her  glance  Danvers  came  forward  and  said : 

"How  do  you  do,  Barton?  It  is  curious  that  I 
should  have  come  to  Canterbury  and  met  your  wife 
like  this.    A  delightful  surprise." 

"Very  curious,  and  very  surprising,"  said  Bristles. 
"Perhaps  you  will  give  me  an  explanation  as  to 
what  brings  you  to  Canterbury  while  my  wife  is 
here?" 

He  spoke  very  calmly  and  quietly,  but  Nick  knew 
by  his  tightened  mouth  that  he  was  trying  to  hide 
his  anger. 

Danvers  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  Cathedral  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said,  "and 
I  have  a  devotion  to  Thomas  a  Becket." 

Bristles  turned  his  back  on  Danvers,  and  spoke 
to  Beauty. 

"Nick  and  I  have  not  had  lunch  yet.  Have  you 
time  to  join  us?" 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

"Yes,"  said  Beauty.    "Yes— of  course." 

But  Danvers  stepped  between  Beauty  and  Bristles. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  Mrs.  Barton  has  prom- 
ised to  lunch  with  me.  I  therefore  liave  a  prior 
right." 

Bristles  swung  round  and  faced  Danvers,  so  that 
the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  the  word  'right'?"  asked 
Bristles  very  quietly. 

"Yes,"  said  Danvers. 

"In  regard  to  my  wife?"  asked  Bristles. 

"In  regard  to  the  lady  who  has  the  misfortune 
to  be  your  wife,"  said  Danvers  very  coolly. 

What  exactly  happened  after  that  Nick  did  not 
quite  see  or  understand.  He  only  knew  that  all  the 
world  had  changed  for  him,  and  that  great  forces 
which  had  lurked  behind  the  mystery  of  things  sud- 
denly leaped  out,  naked  and  terrible,  transfiguring 
the  man  who  was  his  father,  and  the  man  whom 
he  had  called  the  Beast,  and  that  all  the  happiness 
which  had  been  in  his  heart,  because  he  had  come 
to  meet  Beauty,  was  suddenly  emptied  out  to  make 
room  for  terror. 

As  he  remembered  the  scene  afterward,  as  a  boy 
and  as  a  man,  in  strange  places  and  at  many  odd 
times,  in  the  days  and  nights,  it  was  the  picture  of 
Bristles  raising  a  stick  which  flashed  in  the  sun  like 
a  shining  sword,  and  bringing  it  down  with  a  swing- 
[119] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

ing  cut  upon  the  head  of  the  Beast,  so  that  the  man's 
forehead  was  marked  with  a  Hne  of  blood,  and  then 
of  two  sticks  clashing  together  until  both  were 
broken,  when  Bristles  and  the  Beast  struggled  with 
each  other,  swaying  to  and  fro,  clutching  at  each 
other's  throats,  striking  with  their  fists,  and  then  of 
several  figures  thrusting  inwards  from  a  crowded 
circle  of  staring  faces,  and  tearing  the  two  men 
apart,  and  lastly  of  Bristles  standing  very  tall  and 
straight  without  his  hat,  with  a  bleeding  gash  down 
his  left  cheek,  with  his  fists  clenched,  with  his  face 
as  white  as  death,  with  his  eyes  burning  like  fires, 
while  a  little  crowd  of  men  and  women  bent  over 
the  body  of  the  Beast  as  it  lay  very  still  upon  the 
ground. 

That  was  all  Nick  remembered  until  he  sat  alone 
with  Beauty  in  a  four-wheeled  cab,  with  his  face 
pressed  against  her  body,  which  was  shaking  with 
sobs.  He  remembered  that  she  kept  on  crying  "O 
God !  O  God !"  and  that  her  tears  fell  upon  his  face, 
and  that  her  hands  clasped  his  very  tight.  He  re- 
members now  that  he  spent  that  night  alone  with 
Beauty,  sleeping  in  a  little  room  with  great  oak 
beams  across  the  ceiling,  and  in  a  big  bed  with 
curtains  round  it.  He  remembers  also  that  he  woke 
up  several  times  in  the  night  and  that  always  he 
saw  Beauty  kneeling  by  his  bedside  with  her  hands 
outstretched,  and  her  body  shaking  as  though  she 
[120] 


BEAUTY  GOES  AWAY 

were  very  cold.  He  was  not  awake  enough  to  speak 
to  her,  but  only  just  awake  enough  to  remember 
that  something  terrible  had  happened,  and  to  be  very 
sorry  for  Beauty  and  Bristles,  and  to  cry  himself  to 
sleep  again. 

In  the  morning  when  the  sun  streamed  through 
the  windows  and  when  he  sat  up  in  bed,  wondering 
for  a  moment  to  find  himself  in  the  strange  room, 
until  remembrance  came  back  on  swift  wings,  he 
was  frightened  to  find  that  Beauty  had  gone  away 
and  that  he  was  quite  alone.  On  the  quilt  which 
covered  him  was  a  little  white  envelope,  addressed 
with  a  few  words  which  he  couldn't  read  in  Beauty's 
scrawly  handwriting,  in  pencil. 

Presently  Bristles  came  into  the  room.  He  was 
still  very  white  in  the  face,  and  there  was  a  red 
mark  down  his  left  cheek.  When  he  found  that  Nick 
was  alone  in  the  room  a  queer,  frightened  look  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  then  he  saw  the  little  white  en- 
velope lying  on  the  bed.  He  picked  it  up,  while 
Nick  watched  him  without  saying  a  word,  and  turned 
it  over  and  over  in  his  hands,  as  though  afraid  to 
open  it.  But  at  last  he  unfastened  it,  and  after 
reading  a  few  words,  let  the  envelope  fall  to  the 
carpet  and  stood  there  with  his  head  drooping,  and 
his  hands  clenched  very  tight. 

"Where  has  Beauty  gone?"  asked  Nick. 

Bristles  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  Nick  as 

[121] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

he  sat  up  in  bed.  There  was  a  great  pain  in  his 
eyes,  as  though  something  had  hurt  him  very  badly. 
''Beauty  has  gone  on  tour  again,"  he  said. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  put  his  arm 
round  Nick  and  gave  a  terrible  groan,  as  though 
the  hurt  in  his  heart  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 


[12a] 


PART   II 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

In  the  memory  of  Nicholas  Barton  the  younger, 
the  change  from  a  top-floor  flat  in  Battersea  to  a 
whitewashed  cottage  in  Barhampton  took  place  sud- 
denly, after  a  day  when  the  man  who  had  once  been 
Bristles,  and  who  was  now  Father,  had  come  home 
with  an  awful  look  on  his  face  and  had  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  study,  and  not  opened  the  door  when 
Nick  had  knocked  at  it.  It  was  the  same  day  that 
Polly  had  put  on  a  black  satin  dress  and  had  gone 
out  early  in  a  four-wheeled  cab  with  Bristles,  and 
had  come  back  again  with  her  face  all  smudged  with 
tears.  In  the  kitchen  where  he  was  making  a  rail- 
way station  with  all  his  bricks  and  some  of  the 
dining-room  books,  under  the  care  of  a  servant 
from  another  flat,  lent  out  for  the  occasion,  Polly 
had  flung  her  arms  round  him  and  cried  so  that 
all  her  tears  fell  upon  his  head  (he  had  to  wipe  his 
hair  afterward  on  the  kitchen  table-cloth),  and  kept 
saying  "Oh,  my  poor  poppet!  Oh,  my  poor  pop- 
pet!" as  though  something  frightful  had  happened 
to  him. 

He  had  guessed  at  once  that  it  had  something  to 
do  with  Beauty,  who  had  never  come  home  agaitt 
[  125  1 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

from  being  on  tour,  and  although  he  pretended  to 
go  on  with  his  railway  station,  and  was  very  busy 
with  his  bricks,  he  kept  his  ears  wide  open  to  catch 
anything  he  could  hear  from  the  whispered  conver- 
sation between  Polly  and  the  borrowed  servant. 

They  kept  on  repeating  one  word  which  he  had 
never  heard  before.  It  was  the  word  "Divorce," 
which  seemed  to  be  the  frightful  thing  which  had 
happened  to  him,  because  every  time  Polly  mentioned 
it  she  wiped  her  eyes  again,  and  said,  "What's  to 
become  of  the  boy,  I  really  can't  think,"  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind,  until  the  borrowed  servant  said 
"Hush!"  And  then  one  sentence  was  spoken  by 
Polly  which  seemed  to  be  even  more  frightful  than 
the  other  word. 

"The  poor  master  has  got  his  decree  nicely  and 
the  custardy  of  the  child.  Oh,  dearie  Lord,  to  think 
that  it  should  have  come  to  a  decree  nicely !" 

"Well,  as  long  as  he's  got  the  custardy  of  the 
child,"  said  the  borrowed  servant  in  a  voice  that 
was  louder  than  a  whisper,  "I  don't  see  that  he  has 
lost  very  much.  That  woman  is  nothing  but  a 
creature." 

It  was  Polly's  turn  to  say  "Hush!"  and  when 
she  saw  that  Nick's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  her,  she 
got  very  red  in  the  face  and  began  talking  about  the 
weather. 

Nick  was  quite  sure  that  all  these  queer  words 
had  something  to  do  with  Beauty,  and  that  night 
[126] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

when  he  went  to  bed — Bristles  was  still  shut  up  in 
his  study — he  lay  awake  quite  a  long  time,,  trying 
to  pretend  that  Beauty  had  come  back,  and  was  only 
in  the  next  room,  and  presently  would  steal  in  to  see 
if  he  were  asleep,  and  then  scold  him  because  his 
eyes  were  open.  But  suddenly  there  was  a  sharp 
pain  in  his  heart,  where  a  little  voice  inside  him 
said,  "It's  not  a  bit  of  use  pretending,  because 
Beauty  has  not  come  back,  and  then  he  stuflfed  the 
corner  of  the  pillow  in  his  mouth,  so  that  no  one 
should  hear  him  cry  out,  ^'Beauty !  Beauty !"  nor  hear 
the  sobs  which  shook  his  bed  so  that  the  brass  knobs 
rattled. 

No  one  would  ever  tell  him  what  had  really  be- 
come of  Beauty,  not  Polly,  who  told  him  lies,  quite 
different  from  each  other,  day  by  day,  nor  Bristles, 
who  always  said,  "Beauty  is  on  tour.  It  is  a  very 
long  tour,  Nick,  old  man,  and  we  must  learn  to  do 
without  her,  if  we  can." 

"But  I  can't!"  Nick  had  said,  with  a  howl  of 
grief,  and  often  he  had  cried,  "I  want  my  Beauty !" 
until  one  day  Bristles  had  shouted  out  quite  sharply, 
"Don't!  For  God's  sake,  don't.  I  can't  bear  it, 
Nick!" 

Then  he  himself  had  cried,  and  the  sight  of 
Bristles  crying — Nick  had  not  believed  till  then  that 
any  man  could  cry — had  been  so  frightening,  be- 
cause the  body  of  Bristles  shook  up  and  down,  when 
he  put  his  face  down  onto  his  arms  which  were 
[  127  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

stretched  across  the  table,  that  Nick  never  cried  out 
for  Beauty  again,  except  when  he  was  quite  alone 
with  Peter  Rabbit,  and  the  Rocking  Horse,  and  other 
private  friends. 

The  nearest  he  could  get  to  the  truth  about  Beauty- 
was  when  he  asked  Bristles  a  question  so  suddenly 
that  he  was  taken  by  surprise.  Nick  asked  it  very 
quietly,  just  as  he  might  have  asked  a  question  about 
how  things  work,  or  what  the  moon  is  made  of,  or 
why  the  stars  only  come  alive  at  night. 

"Is  Beauty  like  that  fairy  queen  we  saw,  who 
fell  in  love  with  an  ass?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bristles,  and  then  he  groaned  and 
said,  "My  God,  yes!" 

Nick  ventured  another  question. 

"Did  you  kill  the  Beast  that  day?  You  know, 
when     ..." 

"No,"  said  Bristles.    "Sometimes  I  wish  I  had." 

Then,  as  though  he  had  only  just  noticed  that  it 
was  Nick  who  was  asking  him  these  questions,  he 
gave  a  great  start,  and  became  very  pale,  and  said, 
"God  forgive  me,  I  don't  mean  that!  Nick,  why 
do  you  ask  such  extraordinary  questions?" 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  Nick. 

Bristles  was  silent  after  this,  but  every  now  and 
then  his  eyes  strayed  over  to  the  boy's  face,  as 
though  wondering  whether  he  was  old  enough  to 
know.  But  he  still  kept  up  the  pretence  of  Beauty 
being  on  tour,  though  Nick  had  ceased  to  believe 
[128I 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

it.  He  did  not  understand  that  Nick's  mind  had 
grown  much  bigger  since  that  day  when  they  had 
gone  to  Canterbury  together.  He  did  not  guess  that 
this  small  boy,  who  still  seemed  a  baby  fellow,  had 
puzzled  out  many  little  facts  and  pieced  them  to- 
gether, so  that  a  shadowy  form  of  truth — the  truth 
about  Beauty — had  been  built  up  in  his  imagination. 
Bristles  had  no  idea  that  Nick  had  been  searching 
and  groping  in  the  darkness  of  this  great  mystery 
of  his  life  until  with  a  flash  of  light  it  had  been 
revealed  to  him  that  the  man  whom  he  called  the 
Beast  had  stolen  Beauty  away.  And  when  Nick 
ceased  to  cry  out  for  his  mother,  and  didn't  even 
mention  her  name,  Bristles  believed  that  he  was 
gradually  forgetting  her,  and  that  the  agony  of 
his  childish  grief  had  passed  away.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  Nick  was  hugging  the  memory  of  his 
mother  in  the  secret  hiding-places  of  his  heart,  and 
that  the  scent  of  her  clothes  in  the  wardrobe,  the 
touch  of  the  muff  she  had  left  behind,  the  sight  of 
the  paper-backed  novels  of  which  she  had  read  so 
many,  the  association  of  a  thousand  little  things 
yfkh  Beauty,  made  him  hungry  for  her,  and  gave 
him  a  great  ache  which  nothing  could  cure. 

Beauty's  going  away  had  spoiled  the  game  of  his 
life.  Nothing  was  the  same  as  it  had  been.  Even 
Peter  Rabbit  had  a  sad  look,  and  he  had  had  his 
last  ride  on  Rocking  Horse,  and  Joan  Darracott  of 
the  ground-floor  flat  was  no  longer  wiser  than  he 
[129} 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

about  the  grown-up  world,  because  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  way  in  which  mothers  left  their  boys.  He 
himself  was  different,  because  of  the  great  secret, 
and  of  the  mystery  that  lay  behind  it.  It  made  him 
hide  things  from  Bristles  and  Polly  and  Joan,  so 
that  often  he  spoke  things  which  he  did  not  rriean, 
and  kept  his  real  thoughts  shut  up  in  the  little  cup- 
board of  his  brain. 

"Why  do  you  sit  so  still  and  quiet  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Master  Nick?"  said  Polly 

And  Nick  answered : 

"I  am  pretending  to  be  on  the  magk  carpet  of 
Bagdad,  traveling  about  the  world." 

But  really  he  had  stolen  into  the  drawing-room 
not  once,  but  on  many  days,  because  when  the  door 
was  shut  and  when  he  stooped  down  to  smell  the 
faint  scent  in  the  cushions  of  the  sofa,  Beauty  seemed 
to  come  into  the  room,  and  \vhen  he  shut  his  eyes 
he  could  see  her  as  clearly  as  ever  he  had  seen 
her,  sitting  there,  with  a  book  on  her  lap,  and  a 
lighted  cigarette  between  her  fingers,  and  a  teasing 
smile  on  her  face.  He  would  steal  out  of  the  room 
again,  shutting  the  door  very  quietly,  so  as  not  to 
disturb  this  dream  Beauty,  and  in  the  kitchen  Polly 
would  look  up  from  her  ironing  and  say : 

"What  big  eyes  you  have  got,  my  poppet  !'* 

And  he  would  say : 

"I  have  been  looking  at  all  sorts  of  magic  things.*' 

But  he  never  told  Polly,  nor  Bristles,  nor  even 
[  130] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

Joan  Darracott,  oi  how  he  saw  Beauty  and  the  teas- 
ing smile  on  her  face. 

But  now  after  that  day  when  Bristles  had  shut 
himself  up  in  his  study  and  when  Polly  had  come 
back  from  some  mystery  place  in  a  black  satin  gown 
with  her  face  smudged  with  tears,  almost  everything 
changed,  as  though  by  a  wizard's  wand,  and  the 
only  things  that  did  not  change  were  Polly  and 
Bristles,  and  Peter  Rabbit,  and  some  of  the  old 
toys  and  the  old  furniture  and  the  old  books,  which 
were  transplanted  from  the  top-floor  flat  overlooking 
the  tree-tops  in  Battersea  Park  to  the  whitewashed 
cottage  looking  out  to  the  great,  lonely  sea. 

It  was  a  queer  little  cottage,  and  the  last  of  a 
row  of  six  little  cottages,  all  exactly  the  same,  and 
all  just  as  queer.  Each  of  them  had  a  front  sitting- 
room  looking  out  to  sea,  and  a  back  kitchen  looking 
out  to  the  river,  and  the  sand-dunes  on  the  other 
side.  Each  of  them  had  a  front  bedroom  with  a 
ceiling  so  low  that  Bristles  almost  touched  it  with 
his  head  when  he  stood  up  straight,  and  a  back  bed- 
room so  small  that  Polly  was  always  complaining 
she  could  not  swing  a  cat  in  it,  though  why  she 
wanted  to  swing  a  cat  in  it,  Nick  could  never  under- 
stand. Each  cottage  had  a  small  front  garden 
divided  from  its  neighbor  by  a  fence  so  low  that 
Nick  could  step  across  it,  like  Gulliver  in  the  land 
of  Lilliput,  and  at  the  end  of  each  front  garden  was 
a.  wooden  gate,  not  much  bigger  than  a  toy  gate  to 

[131] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  fair-sized  doll's  house,  and  ^:^yo,nd  that  lay  a 
patch  of  grass  where  '-^^....^ys  browsed,  and  beyond 
that  the  broad  sands  where  the  children  played,  and 
beyond  that  the  sea  which  reached  to  the  end  of 
the  world,  and  to  the  hiding-place  of  the  sun. 

When  Bristles  told  Nick  that  they  were  going  to 
leave  the  top-floor  flat,  it  seemed  to  Nick  that  the 
whole  world  was  shattering  beneath  his  feet.  And 
when  some  big  men  came,  with  beads  of  moisture  on 
their  brows,  to  take  the  furniture  away,  he  felt  like 
a  cat  whose  home  is  being  broken  up  by  some  domes- 
tic earthquake,  known  as  "a  move."  He  understood 
tliat  some  of  the  **things,"  as  Polly  called  these  house- 
hold friends,  were  going  to  be  sold,  and  Nick  wept 
inwardly  for  every  one  of  them,  and  while  Polly  was 
not  looking,  kissed  good-by  to  senseless  articles, 
like  the  chair  with  the  wide-embracing  arms,  and 
the  hassock  with  two  ears,  and  the  sideboard  with 
the  laughing  lions,  which  had  been  familiar  to  him 
since  his  eyes  first  opened  to  the  world,  and  had  been 
endeared  to  him,  because  he  had  so  loved  all  those 
things  to  which  he  had  given  separate  characters 
and  personalities.  It  seemed  that  his  own  nature 
was  being  broken  to  bits  by  this  destruction  of  his 
little  dwelling  place,  and  for  a  time  he  hated  Bristles 
and  Polly  with  a  fierce  and  secret  hatred,  because 
they  sent  these  old  friends  packing,  and  superin- 
tended this  break-up  of  the  world  with  such  callous 
cruelty.  But  more  agonizing  to  him  than  the  selling 
[  132] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

of  the  furniture  was  the  thought  that  this  going  away 
from  the  top-floor  flat  meant  that  he  would  never 
see  Beauty  again.  For  when  she  wanted  to  come 
back,  how  should  she  know  where  they  were  ?  She 
would  come  to  the  door  and  knock,  with  that  quick 
rat-tat-tat,  followed  by  a  dump,  which  she  always 
gave,  to  let  people  know  that  she  was  coming,  and 
there  would  be  no  one  to  answer  her,  and  presently 
the  neighbors  would  tell  her  that  Bristles  and  Nick 
had  gone  away,  and  she  might  search  through  the 
whole  world  and  never  find  them. 

This  thought  was  so  terrible  to  him  that  he  con- 
fessed it  to  Polly,  and  when  he  had  told  her,  she 
put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  and  wept,  and  then 
said: 

"My  poor  poppet!     My  poor  poppet!" 

After  that  she  promised  to  pin  a  notice  to  the 
door  with  the  new  address  on  it,  so  that  if  Beauty 
came  back  she  would  know  where  to  go.  Nick  kept 
her  to  this  promise,  and  after  she  had  written  out 
the  address  of  the  cottage  by  the  sea,  he  wrote  under- 
neath, in  the  smallest  printed  letters  he  could  make : 

"Beauty,  come  back!" 

And  after  those  words  he  put  three  crosses,  which 
meant  kisses. 

It  gave  him  some  comfort  when  Polly  nailed  the 

notice  to  the  door,  with  the  heel  of  her  shoe,  but 

when  the  four-wheeled  cab  came,  and  the  last  of  the 

Itiggage  was  piled  on  top,  and  when  he  stood  in 

[133] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

the  doorway  of  the  empty  flat  while  Polly  was  call- 
ing for  him  down  below,  he  gave  a  little  whimper 
of  pain,  like  an  animal  hurt  in  a  trap,  and  in  his 
heart  there  was  a  desolation  and  despair.  Small  as 
he  was,  he  knew  by  a  little  voice  which  spoke  in 
his  brain,  that  he  had  left  forever  in  that  empty 
flat  the  spirit  of  the  child  whom  Beauty  had  loved, 
and  the  spirit  of  Beauty  for  whom  he  mourned. 
When  he  went  down  the  stairs  in  answer  to  Polly's 
cry  of  "Master  Nick!" — Bristles  had  gone  to  the 
station  in  advance — he  was  no  longer  a  child,  but 
a  small  boy  with  a  big  secret  in  his  heart. 

Then  there  had  been  the  parting  with  Joan  Darra- 
cott.  That  also  had  torn  at  his  heart  strings.  For 
Joan  and  he  had  had  many  quarrels  together,  which 
had  made  them  friends.  And  he  had  been  glad  of 
her  teasing,  though  angry  at  the  time.  And  in 
her  good  moods,  about  once  a  week,  she  had  been 
very  nice  and  kind,  telling  him  all  her  secrets,  and 
listening  to  all  his  new  discoveries.  He  would  feel 
very  lonely  without  the  girl  on  the  ground-floor  flat. 

So  he  told  her  through  the  railings  of  the  garden 
in  which  she  sowed  seeds  which  never  came  up : 

"Joan,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  away  now.  I  shall 
be  frightfully  alone  without  you." 

But  Joan  was  in  one  of  her  bad  moods. 

"Grood  riddance  tQ  bad  rubbish,"  she  said,  digging 
up  a  piece  of  earth.  He  did  not  understand  that  she 
was  angry  with  him  because  he  was  going  away,  and 

[134] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

that  she  had  howled  her  eyes  out  that  very  morn- 
ing because  she  knew  he  was  going  away. 

Her  words  seemed  Hke  a  slap  in  the  face,  and 
Nick  became  very  red. 

"Crosspatch !"  he  said.  Then  he  spoke  very 
softly : 

"Perhaps  we'll  never  see  each  other  again.  But 
ril  think  of  you  till  I'm  dead." 

She  was  startled  at  that. 

"You  are  not  going  away  to  die,  are  you?"  she 
asked,  letting  her  trowel  drop,  and  scrumpling  up 
her  pinafore  with  her  muddy  hands. 

"Going  away  is  like  dying,"  said  Nick. 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  after  some 
fumbling  pulled  out  the  same  old  mouth-organ  for 
which  they  had  fought  through  the  railings  when 
they  had  first  met. 

"Here  is  a  keepsake  for  you,"  he  said. 

Joan  stared  at  it,  and  said  very  rudely: 

"It  isn't  a  keepsake.  It's  a  mouth-organ.  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  ?" 

Nick  let  it  drop  through  the  railings. 

"Anyhow,  I  shall  leave  it  with  j^ou.  I  should 
like  to  think  you  played  your  one  tune  on  it.  You 
know — Three  Blind  Mice." 

"Pooh !"  said  Joan,  "I  could  play  dozens  of  tunes 
if  I  wanted  to." 

"Well,  anyhow,  IVe  got  to  go,"  said  Nick,  for 
Polly  was  calling  to  him  from  the  cab.  There  was 
I'35] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  great  lump  in  his  throat  when  he  said,  "Good-by, 
Joan!" 

Joan  did  not  answer.  She  had  become  very  red 
in  the  face.  Then  suddenly  she  put  both  hands 
through  the  railings  and  caught  hold  of  Nick,  so  that 
he  thought  she  was  in  one  of  her  wild-cat  moods. 
But  she  drew  him  close  and  put  her  face  up  against 
the  railings,  and  kissed  him  through  them.  Then 
she  began  to  cry,  and  while  the  tears  trickled  down 
her  cheeks,  she  fumbled  in  her  pocket  and  pulled 
out  a  silver  thimble. 

"Will  that  do  for  a  keepsake?''  she  said,  holding 
it  out  through  the  railings. 

Nick  looked  at  it  doubtfully. 

"Well,  I  can't  do  needlework,"  he  said.  "That's 
girl's  work,  you  know." 

He  said  it  very  gently,  so  as  not  to  offend  her. 
But  she  was  offended,  for  she  flung  the  thimble 
into  the  road,  and  said: 

"Don't  take  it  then!" 

Nick  ran  after  it  and  caught  it,  just  as  it  was 
rolling  into  the  gutter. 

"I  zvill  take  it,"  he  said,  and  he  put  it  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket  just  as  Polly  was  becoming  so 
impatient  that  she  threatened  to  go  without  him 

So  he  left  the  top-floor  flat,  and  as  he  sat  very 
still  and  quiet  in  the  cab,  he  felt  that  he  was  drivin 
away  from  most  of  the  things  that  had  made  life  a 
game  to  him.    It  was  only  because  he  was  too  proud 
[136] 


i 

i 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

to  cry  before  Polly  that  he  did  not  let  the  tears  get 
higher  than  his  throat. 

That  night  he  slept  in  a  strange  little  bed  in  a 
strange  little  room,  within  sound  of  the  great  sigh- 
ing sea,  which  frightened  him.  He  was  glad  to 
have  Peter  Rabbit  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
Joan's  silver  thimble  clasped  tightly  in  his  hand. 
And  he  was  glad  to  know  that  in  a  little  while 
Bristles  would  come  to  sleep  in  the  camp  bed  near- 
est to  the  window,  so  that  if  Nick  woke  up  in  the 
night  he  would  have  some  one  to  guard  him  from 
Anything  which  might  jump  out  of  the  darkness 
of  this  unfamiliar  room. 

Bristles  himself  had  undergone  a  change  in  the 
break-up  of  the  top-floor  flat.  He  was  not  the  same 
Bristles  as  before  in  his  habits  and  way  of  life.  He 
had,  for  instance,  left  off  being  Something  in  the 
City,  and  that  made  all  the  difference  to  him.  Be- 
cause now  he  did  not  have  to  leave  home  early  in 
the  morning  in  a  chimney-pot  hat  and  black  coat, 
and  stfiped  trousers  creased  under  the  mattress, 
which  was  the  costume  worn  by  people  who  add  up 
the  figures  of  people  who  have  so  much  money  that 
they  can't  count  it  themselves.  The  chimney-pot 
hat,  the  black  coat  and  the  striped  trousers  had  been 
sold,  with  most  of  the  other  furniture,  and  with 
Beauty's  dresses,  underclothing,  and  ornaments. 
Bristles  always  dressed  now  in  his  Saturday  after- 
noon clothes  with  a  soft  collar,  a  Norfolk  jacket 
1137  1 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

without  a  button  to  the  waistband,  flannel  trousers 
without  a  crease  down  the  middle,  and  brown  boots 
which  it  was  Nick's  duty  and  pleasure  to  clean  with 
brown  paste  until  he  could  see  the  image  of  his  own 
face  in  them  .  .  .  Bristles  had  become  a  story- 
tdler. 

Looking  back  on  this  change  in  Bristle's  way  of 
life  in  after  years,  Nick  is  of  opinion  that  it  did  not 
happen  quite  so  suddenly  as  he  imagined  at  the 
time.  He  believed  that  Bristles  must  have  been  pre- 
paring for  a  good  long  while  to  give  up  being  Some- 
thing in  the  City,  and  to  take  to  story-telling.  Be- 
cause the  first  story  which  was  printed  in  a  book 
with  his  name  of  Nicholas  Barton  written  in  small 
gold  letters  on  the  cover — it  seemed  strange  to  Nick 
to  see  his  own  name  staring  at  him  from  the  book- 
shelf— was  ready  almost  as  soon  as  they  had  settled 
down  in  the  cottage  by  the  sea,  so  that  he  must 
have  written  it  some  time  before.  Perhaps  it  was 
meant  to  be  a  surprise  for  Beauty,  because  inside 
the  cover,  on  the  first  page,  were  the  words  "To 
Beauty,"  as  though  it  were  a  present  to  her.  But 
Beauty  had  gone  away  before  the  printers  had  been 
quick  enough,  and  Bristles  had  to  keep  the  book 
himself. 

After  that  he  was  always  writing  books.  In  his 
memories  of  this  cottage  by  the  sea,  the  dwelling- 
place  of  the  second  part  of  his  life,  Nick  always  sees 
his  father  most  clearly  in  the  front  sitting-room 
[>38] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  a  wreath  of  smoke 
about  his  head,  and  a  pad  of  white  paper  in  front 
of  him  on  the  table,  and  a  penny  bottle  of  ink,  into 
which  he  dipped  his  nib,  which  seemed  to  suffer 
from  an  insatiable  thirst,  and,  in  his  eyes  just  that 
far-away  look,  as  though  searching  for  the  New 
World,  which  may  be  seen  in  the  painted  eyes  of 
Sir  Nicholas  Barton,  his  celebrated  ancestor.  And 
this  memory  portrait  of  Bristles,  the  story-teller,  is 
accompanied  by  the  ghost  of  a  small  boy  sitting  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with  his  heels  resting 
on  the  rung  of  a  cane  chair,  with  his  elbows  dug 
firmly  into  the  red  table-cloth  (on  which  were  many 
little  black  spots,  and  one  or  two  big  black  spots, 
caused  by  the  flourish  of  the  thirsty  pen  and  acci- 
dents to  the  penny  inkpot),  and  his  face  bent  over 
an  open  book,  of  which  he  turns  the  pages  very 
quietly,  so  as  not  disturb  the  man  who  is  writing. 
This  is  the  ghost  of  the  boy  Nick,  in  the  second 
part  of  his  life.  Faint  ghost  sounds  and  faint  ghost 
scents  haunt  the  memory  of  this  scene,  and  come  into 
the  picture.  There  is  the  sound  of  a  bee  buzzing 
about  the  open  lattice  window,  and  the  very  soft 
murmur  of  the  surf  breaking  on  the  sands  beyond 
the  patch  of  grass  where  the  donkeys  browse,  and 
the  faint  fragrance  of  seaweed  stealing  through  the 
open  window,  mixed  with  the  aroma  of  tobacco,  and 
a  subtle  smell  of  tar  and  fishing  nets,  and  a  stronger 
perfume  of  stocks  and  sweet  williams  in  a  honey- 
[139] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

jar  on  the  table.  The  voice  of  Polly,  singing  a 
Cockney  ballad — it  was  generally : 

You'd  look  sweet,  upon  the  seat 
Of  a  bicycle  made  for  two  1 

— ^breaks  in  upon  the  quieter  ghost  sounds,  and 
causes  Bristles  to  groan,  and  thrust  his  fingers 
through  his  hair — and  sometimes  among  these  mem- 
ory sounds  there  is  the  voice  of  the  Merman — a  jolly, 
hearty  voice — shouting  through  the  window,  "Now, 
you  two  bookworms,  come  out  and  warm  yourselves 
in  God's  sunshine!" 

It  was  a  curious  kind  of  life  for  a  small  boy  who 
was  no  longer  a  child,  and  who,  as  the  years  passed, 
became  a  big  boy,  older  in  nwnd  than  in  body,  be- 
cause he  lived  very  much  alone,  so  that  his  thoughts 
grew  old  quickly,  and  who  did  not  have  many  com- 
panions of  his  own  age,  but  made  friends  with  men 
and  women  who  forgot  how  young  he  was. 

It  would  have  been  different  if  he  had  been  to 
school  and  plunged  into  the  rough  and  tumble  of 
schoolboy  life.  But  there  were  two  reasons  why  he 
did  not  go  to  school.  One  was  because  Bristles  was 
still  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  and  the  other  was 
because  Bristles  wanted  Nick  as  his  companion  and 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  parting  with  him. 

Bristles  was  so  poor  (none  of  his  books  was 
ever  a  success)  that  sometimes  there  was  hardly 
enough  to  eat  in  the  cottage  by  the  sea.  At  least 
[  140] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

there  were  days  when  they  had  to  go  on  short  com- 
mons, filUng  up  tlie  hunger-holes  with  bread  and 
butter  and  the  last  bit  of  honey  in  the  jar,  and  when 
Polly  confessed  to  Nick  that  she  couldn't  even  make 
a  drop  of  soup,  because  she  had  boiled  the  old  mut- 
ton-bone until  it  was  as  white  as  a  rag,  and  she 
supposed  the  next  thing  that  would  happen  would 
be  the  workhouse  for  all  of  them. 

Bristles  was  so  poor  that  there  was  a  big  hole 
in  the  elbow  of  his  Norfolk  jacket  and  he  had  to  be 
very  careful  of  sitting  down  in  his  flannel  trousers, 
which  Polly  had  darned  and  patched  until,  as  she 
said,  they  were  nothing  but  darns  and  patches.  And 
because  Bristles  was  so  poor,  Nick  grew  out  of  his 
clothes  much  faster  than  there  was  money  earned 
for  new  ones,  so  that  he  became  sunburnt  half  way 
up  his  arms,  because  his  jersey  was  so  short,  and 
sunburnt  on  his  knees,  because  his  stockings  would 
not  pull  up  so  high.  It  was  a  joy  to  him  .to  put 
off  these  old  rags  altogether  by  going  to  bathe  with 
the  Merman  at  the  far  end  of  the  sand  dunes,  where 
they  were  alone  with  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the 
wind,  so  that  his  body  became  sunburnt  from  head 
to  foot  and  he  did  not  feel  the  need  of  clothes. 

Bristles  was  sunburnt  too,  because,  although  he 
was  always  writing  books,  he  was  greedy  for  the 
sun  and  the  wind  and  he  arranged  his  days  in  such 
a  way  that  he  could  get  as  much  as  possible.  Nick 
was  first  out  of  bed  in  the  mornings,  at  six  o'clock, 

[141] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

but  by  the  time  he  had  run  across  the  grass  and 
said  Good-morning  to  the  browsing  donkeys,  and 
flung  his  first  stone  into  the  sea  (which  was  a  kind 
of  reHgious  ceremony  with  him  at  the  l^eginning  of 
the  day),  Bristles  was  shaving  himself  at  the  open 
window  before  putting  his  head  out  to  see  which 
way  the  wind  was  blowing.  Then  for  an  hour  be- 
fore breakfast  he  could  tramp  along  the  sands  as 
far  as  the  Red  Rocks,  turning  every  now  and  then 
to  face  the  sea  and  take  in  great  breaths  of  air, 
and  to  stare  away  across  the  waters,  as  though  try- 
ing to  see  the  New  World. 

After  breakfast  Nick  and  Bristles  would  settle 
down  to  work,  Nick  to  his  lessons,  which  Bristles 
corrected  until  Nick  caught  him  making  big  mistakes 
in  Latin,  which  he  had  forgotten  since  he  had  been 
to  school,  and  Bristles  to  his  new  book,  which  some- 
times raced  along,  and  sometimes  crawled  along,  and 
sometimes  stopped  altogether,  with  nothing  but  a 
blank  page  to  show  at  the  end  of  the  morning.  The 
afternoons  were  always  holidays,  with  the  Merman, 
the  Lonely  Lady,  or  the  Admiral,  or  with  all  of 
them  together  at  a  laughing  tea-party  under  the. 
shelter  of  the  tussocky  grass  above  the  sand-dunes. 
Then  in  the  evenings,  out  came  the  writing  block 
and  the  reading  books,  and  Bristles  and  Nick  roamed 
in  separate  worlds,  but  were  glad  to  look  across  at 
each  other  now  and  again,  and  to  know  that  they 
were  not  alone.     Then  the  light  faded  from  the 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

window  panes,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  a  pearly 
dusk,  when  Bristles  would  say,  "By  Jove,  it  is  get- 
ting dark!''  just  as  Polly  brought  the  lamp  in,  with 
the  oily  fragrance  which  mixes  with  the  other 
ghost-smells  in  the  memory  of  Nicholas  Barton  the 
younger,  now  that  the  cottage  by  the  sea  has  been 
swallowed  up  In  the  swift  tide  of  life. 

The  lamp  was  the  signal  for  supper,  at  which  Nick 
startled  Bristles  by  his  vast  appetite,  and  at  which 
Bristles  astounded  Nick  by  his  vaster  appetite,  be- 
cause the  sea  air,  which  had  only  a  little  way  to 
travel  before  it  came  through  the  open  window,  put 
a  sharp  edge  upon  their  hunger,  so  that  even  a  meal 
of  bread  and  cheese,  in  the  lean  days  of  poverty,  re- 
quired no  sauce. 

The  blinds  were  never  drawn,  because  the  velvet 
darkness  of  night  closed  in  the  windows,  and  be- 
cause, as  another  reason,  there  were  no  blinds.  On 
a  moonlight  night  Nick  liked  to  glance  up  from 
his  book  and  see  the  silvery  radiance  of  the  sea 
outside,  and  to  hear  the  swish  of  the  surf  upon  the 
sands;  and  sometimes  he  would  sit  in  the  window 
seat  with  his  legs  curled  up,  while  Bristles  puffed 
at  his  pipe,  and  read  out  some  of  the  books  he  had 
brought  from  the  top-floor  flat  of  Nick's  first  home. 

They  were  "The  Three  Musketeers,"  and  "Quen- 

tin  Durward,''  and  "Hereward  the  Wake,"  and  "The 

Cloister  and  the  Hearth,"  which  opened  to  Nick  a 

new  world  of  romance  more  wonderful  and  more 

[143] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

entrancing  than  the  fairy-tales  which  had  first  started 
his  imagination  upon  journeys  of  adventure. 

They  were  great  chums,  this  man  and  boy,  and 
the  man  w^as  young  in  his  mind  because  of  the  boy, 
and  the  boy  old  in  his  mind  because  of  the  man; 
so  that  they  drew  close  together  in  comradeship. 
And  yet  there  was  always  a  secret  between  them 
which  each  kept  in  his  heart  and  hid  from  the  other. 
It  was  the  secret  of  Beauty,  whose  name  never 
crossed  the  lips  of  the  man,  so  that  the  boy  was 
afraid  to  speak  of  her,  and  who  seemed  to  have 
been  blotted  out  of  the  mind  of  the  man,  though 
the  boy  brooded  and  pondered  and  yearned,  and 
never  forgot. 

.  Often  Nick  watched  his  father  stealthily,  won- 
dering whether  he  was  really  happy  without  Beauty, 
and  whether  he  had  really  forgotten  her.  There 
were  times  when  Bristles  gave  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
which  seemed  to  quiver  up  from  his  heart,  when 
his  pen  ceased  to  run  across  the  paper,  and  when 
his  eyes  stared  out  of  the  little  window  to  the  great 
sea,  as  though  he  saw  Beauty's  face  there  in  the 
glitter  of  sunlight  or  in  the  gray  haze.  There  were 
nights  when  he  was  restless,  and  when  Nick  was 
wakened  by  the  sound  of  a  stifled  groan,  or  by  the 
quiet  tread  of  his  father's  feet,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  little  room  under  the  low-beamed  ceiling,  which 
nearly  touched  his  head.  And  one  day,  when  Nick 
came  into  the  sitting-room,  after  a  long  walk  along 
[  144] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

the  dunes,  he  found  his  father  with  his  head  over  a 
photograph  which  lay  on  the  table  before  him.  As 
Nick  came  in,  he  covered  the  photograph  quickly 
with  some  of  his  sheets  of  writing,  but  not  quickly 
enough  to  hide  the  smiling  face  of  Beauty;  and 
though  he  called  out  "Hulloh,  old  man,  back  so 
soon?"  his  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  there  was  a 
strangely  drawn  look  about  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes 
were  moist  and  shining.  It  was  the  only  sign  by 
which  Nick  knew  that  his  father  still  remembered 
Beauty,  and  after  that  day  Nick  never  saw  the  pic- 
ture of  the  woman  whose  face  still  came  to  him  in 
dreams  so  vividly,  so  like  life  itself,  that  when  he 
woke  he  believed  that  her  spirit  had  been  with  him. 
But  he  never  gave  a  word  or  a  hint  of  that  to  his 
father,  because  of  that  strange  reticence  which  seals 
the  lips  of  boys,  and  makes  them  hide  some  part  of 
their  soul  from  the  most  comradely  of  fathers. 

His  father  was  surely  the  most  comradely  of 
fathers.  They  two  at  least  were  in  closer  comrade- 
ship than  most  fathers  and  sons.  Nicholas  Barton, 
the  elder,  was  almost  womanly  in  his  love  for  Nich- 
olas, the  younger,  so  that  he  was  uneasy  when  the 
boy  was  away  from  him,  even  for  an  afternoon,  and 
jealous  of  those  who  took  him  away. 

It  was  generally  the  Merman  who  took  him  away, 
but  sometmes  it  was  the  Admiral,  and  sometimes  the 
Lonely  Lady. 

The  Merman  was  the  gentleman  next  door,  and 
[145] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

before  they  knew  that  his  name  was  Edward  Framp- 
ton,  Bristles  and  Nick  called  him  the  Merman,  be- 
cause he  bathed  at  least  three  times  a  day  in  warm 
weather,  and  lay  without  much  clothing  on  the  sand 
with  the  sun  scorching  his  body,  more  like  a  wild 
man  who  had  come  up  from  the  sea  than  a  citizen 
of  earthly  habits.  He  had  made  friends  quickly  with 
Nick,  over  the  foot-high  fence  which  divided  their 
front  gardens,  and  had  addressed  him  on  the  very 
first  morning  with  a  "Hi,  young  fellow,  do  you 
know  how  to  swim?" 

"No,^'  said  Nick. 

At  this  reply  Mr.  Edward  Frampton  thrust  his 
fingers  through  his  golden  beard,  opened  his  eyes 
very  wide,  and  said,  *'Well,  I  never!"  and  then 
turned  to  a  brown  spaniel  which  was  lying  on  the 
little  lawn,  with  its  tongue  lolling  out,  and  said : 

*'Jem,  my  lad,  here's  a  young  fellow  of  handsome 
appearance  and  gentlemanly  demeanor,  what  doesn't 
know  how  for  to  swim !  What  do  you  say  to  that, 
my  friend?" 

Jem  did  not  say  anything,  and  lolled  his  tongue 
out  a  little  further,  but  Nick  felt  intensely  humiliated 
before  the  man  and  the  dog,  at  not  knowing  how  to 
swim,  and  felt  that  he  must  make  an  immediate  ex- 
planation. 

"I  come  from  a  top-floor  flat,"  he  said,  "quite  a 
long  way  from  the  sea." 

The  tall  man  w^ith  the  golden  beard,  who  had 

[146] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

blue  eyes,  and  very  short,  fair  hair,  and  who  was 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  white  flannels  with  white  shoes, 
turned  to  his  dog  again,  and  explained  the  explana- 
tion : 

"Jem,"  he  said,  "this  young  gentleman  wishes  us 
to  know  that  he  came  from  a  top-floor  flat  very  far 
from  the  sea.  That  is  the  reason  why  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  swim.  But  surely  it  is  no  reason  at  all 
why  he  should  let  even  a  single  day  go  by  without 
learning  that  beautiful  art  which  brings  a  man  nearer- 
to  Nature  than  any  other  human  exercise?  We  must 
teach  the  young  gentleman  how  to  swim,  my  friend. 
It  is  our  bounden  duty,  after  obtaining  his  papa's 
permission." 

As  it  happened,  Nicholas,  the  elder,  did  not  know 
how  to  swim  either,  and  this  was  a  great  comfort 
to  Nicholas,  the  younger,  who  felt  less  shy,  and  less 
afraid,  when  they  both  went  together  with  the  Mer- 
man and  his  wise  dog,  to  the  dunes  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  where  they  had  the  sea  and  sky 
and  sand  all  to  themselves,  and  where,  under  the 
guidance  of  their  new  friend,  they  took  their  first 
lessons  in  the  waves.  The  Merman  was  a  marvel, 
and  Nick  watched  him  with  wonder.  He  could 
swim  on  his  back,  with  just  his  nose  out  of  the 
water,  paddling  swiftly  with  his  feet,  and  he  could 
swim  sideways,  with  an  over-arm  stroke,  like  a 
sea-lion  pouncing  on  Its  prey  (at  least,  that  was 
what  Nick  thought  he  looked  like),  and  he  could 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

even  swim  under  the  water,  disappearing  for  a  long 
time,  like  a  submarine,  and  then  coming  up  in  an 
unexpected  place,  spouting  like  a  porpoise.  But 
though  he  was  very  tall  and  strong,  so  that  when 
he  stood  up  on  the  sand  in  his  bathing  dress  with 
the  water  dripping  from  his  golden  beard,  he  seemed 
to  Nick  like  Ulysses  must  have  been,  he  was  very 
gentle  and  kind,  and  did  not  play  any  tricks  to 
frighten  Nick,  and  put  one  hand  under  his  body, 
and  kept  his  head  out  of  the  water,  and  taught  him 
to  work  his  hands  and  legs,  so  that  very  soon  Nick 
found,  to  his  own  amazement  and  to  his  great  joy, 
that  he  could  swim  too,  without  swallowing  the  salt 
of  the  sea.  Nick  beat  his  father  by  several  weeks, 
but  after  they  had  both  learned  they  used  to  go  with 
the  Merman  every  day  into  the  waves,  and  afterward 
sit  beside  him  a  little  while,  when  he  lay  about  naked 
in  the  warm  sand,  telling  wonderful  stories  of  ad- 
venture in  foreign  lands,  and  laughing  in  a  tremen- 
dous way  when  he  described  the  jokes  he  had  had, 
as  a  young  man,  with  black  people  on  the  West 
Coast  of  Africa,  and  with  yellow  people  in  China, 
and  with  copper-colored  people  in  the  Pacific 
Islands,  most  of  whom  had  tried  to  kill  him  at  odd 
times  and  in  odd  ways.  Nick  thought  him  the  most 
wonderful  man  he  had  ever  met,  and  just  like  the 
hero  of  a  boy's  book  of  adventure,  and  Bristles  liked 
him  very  much,  and  exchanged  tobacco  with  him, 
and  talked  with  him  about  black  people's  religion 
[148] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

and  their  belief  in  ghosts  and  devils,  which  the  Mer- 
man seemed  to  believe  in,  too. 

'*An  extraordinary  chap!"  said  Bristles,  more 
than  once  after  those  conversations  on  the  sand 
dunes.  "I  can't  think  why  he  lives  all  alone  in  that 
little  cottage  next  door." 

*'He  doesn't  live  quite  alone,"  said  Nick.  "There 
is  Jem  with  him." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  Bristles. 

For  some  reason  or  other  Polly  did  not  like  the 
Merman,  who  sometimes  came  in  to  tea,  and  some- 
times, in  the  winter,  came  in  to  play  cards,  after 
supper.  She  called  him  "that  dreadful  man,"  much 
to  the  indignation  of  Nick,  who  had  made  a  hero 
of  him.  But  Nick  knew  that  there  was  a  mystery 
about  the  Merman,  which  was  hidden  from  him  by 
Bristles  and  Polly,  who  sometimes  whispered  about 
it,  and  exchanged  queer  glances.  He  became  aware 
of  it  gradually,  until  the  day  when  he  had  a  good 
fright,  and  knew  that  he  had  stumbled  up  against 
one  of  those  mysteries  which  seem  to  lurk  in  life 
behind  the  outward  look  of  things.  The  first  time 
he  became  aware  of  it  was  when  the  Merman  did 
not  come  out  on  a  hot  day  for  his  three  baths  and 
his  sun  bath  in  the  sand,  nor  on  the  following  day, 
nor  for  six  other  days.  During  that  time  there  was 
a  great  silence  in  the  cottage  next  door,  except  some- 
times when  Jem  barked  as  though  in  pain,  and  when 
all  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  tremendous  noise,  as 
[149] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

though  the  Merman  was  lifting  up  his  bed  and  bang- 
ing it  on  the  floor,  so  that  all  the  china  rattled  on 
his  kitchen  sideboard,  and  all  his  assegais  and  bows 
and  arrows,  and  Chinamen's  swords,  and  savages' 
knives  clattered  as  though  they  had  come  clashing 
to  the  ground  from  the  nails  in  the  wall. 

Bristles  had  been  frightened,  and  Polly  had  come 
in  to  say  that  her  heart  had  jumped  into  her  mouth, 
and  then  they  had  all  listened  to  the  great  silence 
which  followed.  Bristles  had  gone  next  door  to  find 
out  if  the  Merman  were  ill,  and  after  a  little  while 
had  come  back  with  scared  eyes,  saying  that  he  had 
knocked  six  times  at  the  little  front  door,  but  could 
get  no  answer. 

A  week  later  the  Merman  came  out  of  his  cot- 
tage, a  little  pale-looking,  but  quite  gay  and  cheer- 
ful, and  without  a  word  as  to  the  reason  of  his  long 
stay  indoors.  This  kind  of  thing  happened  at  reg- 
ular intervals,  about  once  every  three  months.  Al- 
ways at  these  times  there  was  a  silence  next  door, 
then  the  howling  of  the  dog,  and  then  the  tremendous 
noise,  and  then  the  silence  again. 

Nick  could  not  make  out  the  meaning  of  it  all, 
but  one  day,  after  the  Merman  had  not  come  out 
for  some  time,  Nick  saw  his  face  at  the  bedroom 
window.  At  least,  it  was  an  awful  caricature  of 
the  Merman's  face,  though  so  distorted  and  so 
hideous  that  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  wild  beast. 
It  had  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  fierce,  haggard  stare, 
[150] 


THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA 

and  there  was  something  in  it  that  was  horrible  and 
devihsh.  Nick  felt  his  blood  run  cold,  and  then 
crept  into  his  own  house  very  much  afraid.  He 
did  not  tell  his  father  what  he  had  seen.  For  some 
reason  he  could  not  speak  of  that  face  at  the  win- 
dow, which  was  so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  the  man 
of  whom  he  had  made  a  hero.  But  he  had  a  queer 
belief  that  the  Merman  was  possessed  now  and  then 
by  one  of  those  black  men's  devils  of  whom  he  used 
to  speak  and  laugh  while  lying  on  the  sand  dunes, 
and  he  had  a  great  pity  in  his  heart  for  this  man 
with  the  golden  beard  who  once  in  three  months  was 
changed  into  the  likeness  of  a  wild  beast.  And  yet, 
when  he  reappeared  again,  with  more  tales  of  ad- 
venture to  tell,  with  just  the  same  old  hearty  laugh, 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe  that  he  had  been 
under  such  an  evil  spell.  No  one  else  seemed  to 
notice  this  mystery,  except  Bristles  and  Polly,  who 
exchanged  queer  looks,  and  no  word  about  it  was 
mentioned,  even  by  the  Admiral  and  the  Lonely 
Lady,  who  had  been  the  Merman's  friends  since  his 
coming  to  the  cottage  by  the  sea. 


[151] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

It  was  the  Merman  who  taught  young  Nicholas 
Barton  to  swim,  and  it  was  the  Admiral  who  taught 
him  to  sail,  and  it  was  the  Lonely  Lady  who  taught 
him  to  draw,  and  it  was  all  three  of  them  who  gave 
him  a  greater  knowledge  of  life  than  he  could  have 
learned  from  Bristles,  and  Polly,  and  his  books,  and 
his  own  thoughts. 

For  they  were  all  remarkable  people,  and  it  is 
strange  how  Fate  had  arranged  that  those  little 
whitewashed  cottages  facing  the  sea  at  Barhampton 
should  be  the  dwelling  places  of  the  most  remark- 
able people  in  the  world,  at  least,  in  the  opinion  of 
young  Nicholas  Barton. 

The  Admiral  was  hardly  less  remarkable  than 
the  Merman,  though  the  Lonely  Lady  was  more 
remarkable  than  either  of  them,  and  most  mysterious. 
The  Admiral's  real  name  was  Captain  John  Muffett, 
and  he  had  retired  from  the  Merchant  Service  after 
forty  years  on  the  sea  as  boy  and  man.  The  Lonely 
Lady's  real  name  was  Miss  Mary  Lavenham — she 
was  about  as  old  as  Beauty — and  she  bad  come  to 
tlae  cottage  by  the  sea  because,  as  she  explained  very 
frankly,  it  was  cheaper  than  a  mansion  in  Town, 

[152] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

and  because,  as  she  also  explained  very  frankly, 
sliQ  hated  all  her  relations  like  the  Devil,  and  had 
given  them  all  the  slip,  so  that  they  thought  she  had 
run  away  with  the  grocer's  young  man,  who  had 
disappeared  about  the  same  time.  At  least  that 
was  the  story  she  told  to  the  Admiral,  and  the  Mer- 
man, and  to  Nicholas,  the  elder,  when  she  came  to 
know  him,  though  they  told  her  quite  as  frankly  as 
her  ov/n  frankness  that  they' did  not  believe  a  word 
she  said,  and  were  quite  certain  that  she  was  a 
Princess  in  disguise  who  had  run  away  from  Court 
in  order  not  to  marry  a  fat  German  Prince  with 
gold-rimmed  spectacles  and  a  scar  down  his  cheek, 
and  a  nasty  habit  of  wearing  his  boots  in  bed.  (It 
was  the  Merman  who  invented  this  explanation  of 
the  Lonely  Lady,  and  Nick  firmly  believed  that  there 
was  some  truth  in  it.) 

Miss  Mary  Lavenham  was  the  next-door  neighbor 
of  the  Admiral  on  one  side,  and  of  the  Merman 
on  the  other,  and  she  said  that  she  was  ashamed  of 
both  of  them,  because  her  beautiful  little  garden  full 
of  flowers,  which  she  had  planted  with  her  own 
hands,  was  bordered  by  the  Merman's  disreputable 
grass-plot  which  looked  as  if  it  had  the  mange,  and 
by  the  Admiral's  still  more  disreputable  front  yard, 
in  which  he  had  fixed  up  a  carpenter's  bench,  and 
where  there  was  a  litter  of  shavings,  rusty  screws, 
and  nails,  and  material  for  the  making  of  model 
boats. 

[153] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Nevertheless,  Miss  Lavenham  was  on  very 
friendly  terms  with  both  her  next-door  neighbors, 
and  occasionally  plunged  into  their  cottages,  with- 
out permission,  and,  unheeding  of  their  passionate 
protests,  armed  with  a  dustpan  and  broom,  or  with 
a  very  large  duster,  in  order  to  Indulge  in  what  she 
called  a  ''good  old  tidy-up."  The  Merman  assured 
her  that  he  hated  being  tidied  up,  that  it  was  an 
outrage  upon  his  pagan  temperament,  and  that  he 
could  hardly  sit  down  in  his  own  room  after  the 
process  had  been  completed.  The  Admiral  growled, 
swore  some  very  dreadful  sea-oaths,  and  vowed  that 
if  he  did  not  know  how  to  keep  his  own  house  ship- 
shape he  ought  to  have  been  hanged  off  the  yard- 
arm  of  his  first  brig,  which  was  wrecked  off  the 
Azores.  But  Miss  Lavenham  assured  them  that  they 
merely  made  these  remarks  to  keep  up  the  honor  of 
their  Sex,  and  that  they  were  really  very  grateful  to 
her,  and  that  if  they  weren't,  they  ought  to  be. 
After  which  she  retired  to  her  own  cottage,  which 
was  always  as  clean  and  bright  as  a  new  doll's- 
house,  with  a  collection  of  the  Admiral's  socks,  and 
with  one  or  two  of  the  Merman's  flannel  shirts, 
which  she  darned  while  she  read  Tennyson's  poems, 
or,  as  a  change,  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  sitting  at  her 
house-door,  with  a  black  cat  by  her  side.  After 
that  she  would  put  on  a  pale  blue  sun-bonnet  (she 
generally  wore  a  butcher-blue  pinafore  over  her 
frock)  and  with  a  folding  stool  slung  over  one  arm, 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

and  an  easel  tucked  under  the  other,  set  forth  to 
paint  a  picture  of  boats  In  the  harbor,  or  shrimp 
catchers  on  the  wet  sands,  or  just  a  big  stretch  of 
sea  and  sky.  She  was  always  painting  these  pic- 
tures, and  at  first  Nick  didn't  know  which  was  the 
right  way  up  when  he  looked  at  them,  though  after- 
ward he  saw  into  the  mystery  of  them. 

For  some  time  he  avoided  this  Lonely  Lady, 
though  she  did  her  best  to  entice  him  into  her  cot- 
tage by  the  promise  of  piping  hot  cakes  for  luncheon, 
or  sugary  cakes  for  tea,  and  always  said  "Good 
morning,  Nick,  won't  you  come  into  my  garden?" 
when  he  pretended  not  to  see  her  from  the  other 
side  of  the  fence.  For,  in  some  curious  way,  she 
reminded  him  of  Beauty,  and  brought  back  a  great 
pain  into  his  heart,  and  in  another  curious  way  he 
hated  the  idea  of  getting  friendly  with  any  woman, 
because  it  seemed  to  make  him  unfaithful  to  the 
one  woman  who  had  gone  away.  Indeed,  though 
he  became  very  friendly  with  Miss  Mary  Lavenham, 
and  talked  with  her  more  about  the  big  things  of  the 
world  than  with  any  other  friend,  he  was  always  on 
his  guard  lest  she  might  drive  out  the  memory  of 
Beauty.  And  she  knew  that  he  was  on  his  guard, 
because  often,  in  later  years,  when  his  boyhood  was 
slipping  into  young  manhood,  she  would  say : 

"Nick,  I  know  your  brain,  and  I  know  your  heart, 
but  you  have  a  little  cupboard  in  your  soul  where 
all  the  real  self  of  you  hides  from  me.  And  that  is 
[155] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

most  unfriendly  after  all  the  time  I've  lavished  upon 
your  moral  and  intellectual  progress." 

The  first  time  she  tried  to  break  down  his  guard 
was  when,  a  few  weeks  after  his  coming  to  the  cot- 
tage by  the  sea,  he  went  to  tea  with  her,  under  escort 
of  the  Admiral,  who  had  taken  him  for  a  sail  up 
the  river,  taught  him  the  first  lessons  in  tacking,  and 
running  before  the  wind,  and  had  then  said : 

"Now,  my  lad,  you  and  I  have  got  to  make  our- 
selves civil  to  the  kindest-hearted,  sweetest-tempered, 
sturdiest,  bravest,  and  jolliest  little  lady  in  all  the 
world — and  that  is  Miss  Mary  Lavenham,  who  lives 
at  No.  4." 

*'Have  /  got  to  make  myself  civil  to  her?"  asked 
Nick,  with  a  sinking  heart. 

The  Admiral  (of  course  he  wasn't  really  an  Ad- 
miral, but  that  was  the  Lonely  Lady's  name  for 
him)  laughed  at  his  woebegone  face. 

''My  lad,"  he  said,  "you'll  never  get  on  in  this 
world,  unless  you're  civil  to  the  petticoats.  For 
whether  you're  first  mate  or  skipper,  or  Commander 
of  the  Home  Fleet,  it's  women  can  make  your  life 
Heaven  or  Hell,  and  so  put  it  down  in  your  log- 
book, and  don't  forget" 

Thereupon  he  grasped  Nick  firmly  by  the  hand, 
and  saying,  "I've  no  doubt  your  Pa  will  trust  you 
under  my  flag,"  led  him  straight  into  No.  4,  where 
Miss  Mary  Lavenham  was  spreading  bread  and 
butter. 

[156] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

She  put  down  the  knife,  and  smoothed  down  her 
butcher  blue  pinafore,  and  smiled  at  Nick  across  a 
great  bunch  of  wall-flowers  in  the  middle  of  the  tea- 
table. 

'*I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said.  "The  Admiral 
is  so  old,  and  the  Merman  is  so  big,  and  I  am  such 
a  very  Lonely  Lady  that  I  have  longed  for  a  boy 
to  come  and  make  me  young  again,  and  keep  me 
company  sometimes." 

This  speech,  to  which  Nick  answered  nothing,  be- 
cause it  gave  him  such  a  lot  to  think  about,  seemed 
to  make  the  Admiral  very  angry. 

"Old  ?"  he  said.  "Did  you  say  I  w^as  old,  ma'am  ? 
Why,  I  would  have  you  know  that  there's  many  a 
pretty  girl  In  port  that  would  be  glad  to  go  to 
church  with  Captain  Jack  Muffett,  if  only  he  had 
the  pluck  to  say  the  word  to  one.  Old,  indeed! 
That's  a  nice  thing  to  say  about  a  smart  young  fel- 
low of  sixty-five!" 

Having  said  this  with  great  ferocity,  so  that  Nick 
was  afraid  that  he  might  stick  the  table  knife  into 
Miss  Mary  Lavenham  (it  was  very  close  to  him), 
he  suddenly  gave  a  hearty  laugh,  and  his  gruff  voice 
joined  with  the  laughter  of  Miss  Lavenham,  who 
seemed  to  think  the  speech  a  very  funny  one. 

"You're  not  too  old  to  cast  a  villainous  eye  upon 

any  bit  of  baggage  in  a  petticoat,  that  I  will  admit," 

she  said.     "And  what  always  makes  me  wonder  is, 

why  in  the  world  you've  never  been  captured  and 

[157] 


I 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

tamed  by  a  she-hussy.    How  is  it  you've  never  got  I 
married,  Admiral  ?    Tell  me  that,  before  I  give  you 
some  tea." 

''Bashfulness — shyness — lack  of  pluck,  ma'am,'*  1 
said  the  Admiral.    "There's  many  a  young  lady  that 
looked  kindly  on  me — just  as  you  do  now — but  I 
n^yer  had  the  courage  to  offer  my  hand  and  heart 
and  the  little  bit  in  the  Bank.    Funny,  isn't  it?" 

Miss  Lavenham  seemed  to  think  it  very  funny, 
and  laughed  with  her  head  thrown  back  a  little, 
so  that  Nick  could  see  the  laughter  bubbling  in  her 
throat,  and  then  shook  her  forefinger  at  him,  and 
said : 

*'Oh,  you  wicked  old  reprobate!  Oh,  you  beery, 
bleary-eyed  old  Neptune!  I  believe  you  have  a 
dozen  wives  in  different  parts  of  the  world." 

The  Admiral  laughed  at  this  speech  until  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  and  then  gulped  a  great  mouth- 
ful of  hot  tea,  and  after  that  wiped  his  mouth  on 
a  red  bandanna  handkerchief,  and  said,  ''What  a  lady 
it  is  I  What  a  lady !" — as  if  Miss  Mary  Lavenham 
were  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world. 

Just  as  he  said  that  a  big  voice  at  the  cottage  door 
said: 

"Of  course  she  is  a  lady.     If  anybody  says  the 
Lonely  Lady  isn't  a  lady  as  well  as  lonely,  I  will 
strike  him  to  the  ground  and  tread  his  senselessj 
skull  under  my  righteously  indignant  heel."  » 

This  awful  threat,  which  startled  Nick. most  hor- 
[158] 


n 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

ribly  for  a  moment,  was  uttered  by  the  Merman, 
who  stood  smiHng  Into  Miss  Lavenham's  parlor 
from  the  little  front  door,  and  then  said  in  a  wist- 
ful way,  while  he  stroked  his  golden  beard: 

"Of  course  I  won't  invite  myself  to  a  tea-party 
which  isn't  my  own,  but  if  anybody  what  is  giving 
the  tea-party  issues  a  kind  invitation,  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  accept." 

"Come  in !"  said  Miss  Lavenham,  but  Nick,  who 
was  watching  her  face,  saw  that  she  had  become 
rather  red,  as  she  bent  over  the  teapot,  and  he  won- 
dered If  it  was  because  the  teapot  was  very  hot,  or 
if  it  was  because  the  Merman  had  asked  her  to 
invite  him. 

The  Merman  had  to  bend  his  head  very  low  to 
come  in  through  the  front  door,  and  when  he  was 
inside  the  room,  his  head  nearly  touched  the  ceiling, 
and  he  seemed  more  of  a  giant  than  ever.  But  he 
took  up  Miss  Lavenham's  folding  stool,  and  put  it 
down  by  the  side  of  the  tea-table  next  to  Nick,  and 
sat  down  on  it,  so  that  he  did  not  seem  so  tall, 
and  then  gave  a  great,  big,  happy  sigh,  and  said : 

"How  nice  it  is  when  the  Lonely  Lady  gives  a 
tea-party  to  lonely  men  who  have  almost  forgotten 
their  manners." 

After  that  Nick  watched  him  closely,  to  see  if 

he  had  forgotten  his  manners,  but  he  did  not  leave 

his  spoon  in  his  tea-cup,  and  he  said,  "No  thank 

you,"  when  Miss  Lavenham  asked  him  to  take  a 

[159] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

second  piece  of  cake  (though  he  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  a  second  piece  very  badly),  and  he  always 
rose  a  little  way  from  the  folding  seat  when  Miss 
Lavenham  went  from  the  table  to  the  fireplace  to 
get  some  more  hot  water,  as  though  he  would  have 
liked  to  have  helped  her,  if  she  had  not  been  too 
quick  for  him.  Half  way  through  the  tea.  Miss 
Lavenham,  who  had  been  making  many  funny  little 
jokes  which  nearly  caused  the  Admiral  to  choke  (be- 
cause they  always  came  when  he  was  drinking  an- 
other gulp  of  hot  tea)  and  made  the  Merman  smile 
in  his  golden  beard — paused  with  the  teapot  in  her 
hand,  and  said : 

"You  know,  I  feel  a  very  selfish  kind  of  creature." 

''You  selfish?"  said  the  Admiral.  "Pooh!  Stuff 
and  nonsense." 

"Quite  absurd!"  said  the  Merman.  "As  absurd 
as  though  a  fairy  godmother  were  suddenly  to  ex- 
claim 'How  unfairylike  I  am !'  " 

"We  are  all  selfish,"  said  Miss  Lavenham.  "Here 
we  are  enjoying  the  society  of  a  small  boy  who  has 
made  us  all  feel  very  happy,  because  we  have  only 
talked  to  grown-up  people  for  a  very  long  time, 
and  we  have  forgotten  that  his  poor  father  is  miss- 
ing him  all  the  time,  and  sitting  down  to  a  lonely 
tea  without  him,  three  cottages  away." 

It  was  that  little  speech  which  first  broke  down 
Nick's  guard  and  made  him  like  Miss  Mary  Laven- 
ham, although  he  wanted  to  hate  her — for  Beauty's 
[i6o] 


I 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

sake.  Because  all  the  time  he  had  been  thinking  at 
the  back  of  his  head  about  Bristles,  and  feeling  sad 
because  he  was  left  alone.  So  when  Miss  Lavenham 
said,  ''Will  you  ask  your  father,  Nick,  if  he  will 
join  a  tea-party  half  way  through,  with  three  queer 
people  who  are  glad  to  be  his  neighbors,"  he  ran 
off  joyfully,  and  gave  the  invitation  to  a  rather 
moody  Bristles,  who  was  smoking  his  pipe  at  the 
sitting-room  window  with  the  tea-things  untouched 
on  the  table. 

"Hulloh,  old  man,  I  thought  you  were  never  com- 
ing back!"  said  Bristles. 

When  Nick  gave  him  the  message  he  looked 
rather  alarmed,  but  Nick  reassured  him,  and  said  ; 

"You  needn't  feel  shy,  father.  The  Lonely  Lady 
tells  frightfully  funny  jokes,  so  that  one  forgets  all 
about  one's  shyness." 

So  Nicholas,  the  elder,  joined  the  tea-party,  and 
in  a  little  while  after  the  cold  air  he  had  brought 
in  had  got  warm,  Miss  Lavenham  made  some  more 
little  jokes,  and  everybody  laughed  and  the  tea- 
party  lasted  such  a  long  time  that  twilight  crept 
into  the  room  and  the  only  light  was  made  by  the 
Admiral's  pipe. 

Nicholas  sat  very  quietly,  listening  to  stories  of 
shipwreck  and  storms  from  the  Admiral,  who  said 
one  sentence  between  each  puff,  and  listening  to  tales 
of  savage  people  in  far  lands  from  the  Merman,  who 
told  them  like  fairy-tales,  and  listening  to  remarks 
[i6i] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

from  Miss  Mary  Lavenham,  who  always  found 
something  funny  to  say,  and  watching  all  their  faces 
in  the  deepening  gloom.  It  was  then  that  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  these  were  the  three  most  re- 
markable people  in  the  world,  and  it  was  then  that 
he  guessed  that  there  was  some  mystery  between  the 
Merman  and  the  Lonely  Lady.  Because  he  noticed 
that  the  Merman  was  always  looking  at  the  Lonely 
Lady  with  a  queer  look  of  longing  in  his  eyes,  espe- 
cially when  she  was  talking  to  somebody  else,  or 
moving  about  the  room,  so  that  she  did  not  see  him. 
And  Nick  saw  that  the  Lonely  Lady  knew  quite  often 
that  the  Merman  was  looking  at  her  (when  he 
thought  she  did  not  know),  and  drooped  her  eye- 
lashes and  moved  back  into  a  deeper  shadow,  and 
tried  to  avoid  his  look.  But  he  did  not  think  of 
that  after  the  tea-party,  when  he  went  back  home. 
He  thought  only  of  the  stories  of  adventure  which 
had  brought  the  great  wide  world  into  that  little 
room,  and  of  the  Lonely  Lady,  whom  he  did  not 
want  to  like  too  much,  in  case  she  might  make  him 
forget  Beauty. 

Many  tea-parties  had  taken  place  on  summer  after- 
noons and  winter  afternoons,  before  a  very  particu- 
lar one  which  made  him  remember  Beauty  with  an 
awakening  of  his  old  heart-ache.  This  particular 
tea-party  was  given  by  his  father,  in  honor  of  an- 
other book  which  had  been  born  on  that  day.  That 
is  to  say,  the  first  copy  had  been  delivered  from  the 

[162] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

publishers  by  the  morning  post,  and  it  lay  on  the 
sitting-room  table,  wrapped  up  in  tissue  paper 
through  which  its  name  shone  in  golden  letters. 

"Nick,"  said  Bristles — the  old  name  was  still  used 
by  Nick  for  the  man  whom  he  also  called  father — 
"this  is  my  masterpiece,  though  I  say  so  as 
shouldn't.  All  that  is  best  in  my  brain  and  heart 
lie  between  those  covers,  and  if  I  live  to  a  hundred 
I  shall  never  do  anything  so  good." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  make  any  money?"  asked 
Nick.  "We  could  do  with  some,  for  we  are  both 
pretty  shabby  just  now." 

Then  Bristles  confessed,  with  a  glint  of  pride 
in  his  eyes,  that  it  had  already  made  a  bit  of  money, 
for  the  publishers  had  paid  him  £150  on  account  of 
royalties,  and  the  check  had  come  by  the  same  post 
as  the  book,  and  was  the  prettiest  bit  of  paper  that 
ever  he  had  seen. 

He  pulled  out  his  pocket-book,  and  took  out  the 
check,  and  flourished  it  under  Nick's  nose. 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  old  man?" 

Nick  whistled. 

"I  say!  A  hundred  and  fifty  pounds!  That's  a 
tremendous  lot,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  not  tremendous,  exactly,"  said  Nicholas, 
the  elder,  with  assumed  indifference  to  this  amount, 
"but  I  can  reckon  it's  enough  to  make  ourselves  look 
more  decent  and  to  buy  Polly  a  new  dress,  and  to 
oav  her  arrears  of  wages,  and  to  settle  up  with  the 

[  163  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

tradespeople,  who  have  been  very  insolent  of  late, 
and  to  leave  a  good  bit  over  for  future  need.  And, 
by  Jove,  yes,  I  think  I'll  give  an  extra  special  tea- 
party  to-day,  to  celebrate  the  event." 

He  went  into  the  kitchen  as  excited  as  a  boy  who 
has  won  a  prize,  and  interviewed  Polly  on  the  num- 
ber of  extra  special  cakes  which  she  could  buy  for 
five  shillings. 

"Five  shillings  worth  of  cakes!"  cried  Polly.  *'I 
wouldn't  be  guilty  of  such  wicked  extravagance,  and 
all  of  us  as  poor  as  church  mice !" 

"I  am  as  rich  as  Croesus,"  said  Bristles.  ''And 
I'm  going  to  be  fearfully  extravagant,  just  for  the 
fun  of  the  thing,  and  just  for  once  in  a  very  long 
while." 

"As  rich  as  creases  ?"  said  Polly.  "Well,  if  creases 
make  one  rich,  I  must  be  rolling  in  money,  for  I've 
as  many  creases  in  my  best  frock  as  an  old  scare- 
crow in  the  fields." 

While  Bristles  was  laughing  with  Polly  in  the 
kitchen,  and  frightening  her  by  his  wild  desire  to 
spend  large  sums  of  money  (it  was  Polly  who  kept 
at  bay  the  butcher  when  he  demanded  instant  pay- 
ment for  meat  which  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh, 
and  it  was  Polly  who  threatened  to  beat  the  baker 
with  her  longest  broom  because  he  had  said  "Those 
who  can't  pay  shan't  eat"),  Nick  examined  the  new 
book  on  the  sitting-room  table.  He  did  not  think 
ranch  of  his  father's  books.     They  were  not  excit- 

[164] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

ing  like  the  novels  of  Jules  Verne  and  Captain  Mar- 
ryatt  and  Alexander  Dumas,  and  secretly  he  had 
come  to  the  opinion  that  Bristles  could  not  be  a  good 
writer,  because  his  books  never  seemed  to  earn  much 
money.  But  here  was  a  surprise.  There  must  be 
something  in  a  book  which  had  brought  in  £150 
before  it  was  published.  He  was  filled  with  a  great 
feeling  of  pride  in  his  father's  achievement.  It  would 
be  good  to  let  the  Merman  know,  the  Merman,  who 
was  rather  contemptuous  of  Bristles  as  a  literary 
man,  and  the  old  Admiral,  who  always  had  said 
that  Bristles  would  be  a  great  man  when  the  public 
came  to  know  him,  and  Miss  Lavenham,  who  always 
read  his  father's  books  before  they  went  to  the 
printers.  Nick  bent  over  the  volume,  and  opened 
the  cover,  with  a  new  respect  for  his  father's  work, 
and  then  he  saw  four  words  on  the  first  page  which 
gave  him  a  queer  little  shock.    They  were  the  words : 

To  the  Lonely  Lady. 

Nick's  heart  gave  a  jump.  He  remembered  that 
the  first  book  which  had  come  from  his  father's  pen 
had  been  sent  out  to  the  world  with  a  different  ded- 
ication. He  went  to  the  shelf  and  took  out  that  first 
book,  and  stared  at  the  first  page  of  it,  upon  which 
were  the  words  'To  Beauty."  A  great  emotion 
stirred  within  him,  and  a  wave  of  color  swept  into 
his  face,  beneath  his  sunburnt  and  wind-bronzed 
skin.  This  new  dedication  was  like  a  treachery  to 
his  mother.  It  was  a  proof  that  his  father  had  for- 
[165] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

gotten  Beauty  and  had  put  her  out  of  his  mind  for- 
ever. For  he  had  said  that  in  this  new  book  was 
the  best  of  his  mind  and  heart.  He  had  said  it  was 
his  masterpiece — and  he  had  inscribed  upon  it  an- 
other name  than  that  of  the  woman  who  was  his 
wife. 

This  trivial  incident,  these  four  printed  words  on 
a  white  page,  had  an  extraordinary  and  poignant  ef- 
fect upon  young  Nicholas  Barton.  An  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  remorse,  of  shame  and  of  yearning  took 
possession  of  him,  for  those  words  were  a  sharp 
reminder  to  him  that  he  also  had  allowed  Beauty 
to  slip  out  of  his  mind  and  heart,  and  that,  as  the 
years  had  passed,  the  image  of  her  had  gradually 
faded  from  his  memory,  until  now,  when  it  came 
rushing  back,  as  though  clamoring  for  his  remem- 
brance and  for  his  loyalty. 

He  spoke  her  name  aloud,  in  a  whisper,  **Beauty !" 

Then  Bristles  came  back  and  said : 

"Let  us  gather  in  our  guests  from  the  highways 
and  byways,  for  the  banquet  is  at  hand." 

He  did  not  notice  that  Nick  was  silent  and  gloomy- 
eyed,  and  he  went  gaily  into  the  little  front  garden 
to  invite  Miss  Lavenham  to  tea,  and  to  search  for 
the  Admiral  and  the  Merman,  who  had  gone  for 
a  walk  along  the  sand-dunes.  It  was  an  hour  later 
when  the  tea-party  began,  with  an  excess  of  cakes 
which  brought  forth  rebukes  from  Mary  Lavenham 
for  such  wilful  and  wanton  waste,  and  words  of 
[i66] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

respectful  admiration  from  the  Merman  who  said 
that  his  eyes  were  bigger  than  another  part  of  his 
anatomy,  and  hearty  laughter  from  the  Admiral, 
who  said  that  he  would  willingly  be  shipwrecked  on 
a  desert  island  with  such  a  supply  of  victuals. 
Bristles  was  in  the  greatest  good  humor,  and  while 
Mary  Lavenham  poured  out  the  tea,  he  told  them 
the  secret  of  the  good  fortune  that  had  come  to 
him.  Upon  this  Mary  Lavenham  nearly  dropped 
the  teapot  in  order  to  clap  her  hands,  and  the  Mer- 
man rose  to  his  full  height  with  his  teacup  in  his 
hand,  and  solemnly  proposed  the  health  of  Eng- 
land's greatest  novelist,  and  the  Admiral  fastened 
his  red  bandanna  handkerchief  to  the  handle  end  of 
the  toasting-fork,  and  hoisting  it  on  to  the  table 
(with  its  three  prongs  stuck  into  a  cottage  loaf) 
called  for  three  cheers  to  celebrate  such  a  glorious 
victory  in  the  Empire  of  wit  and  wisdom. 

Only  young  Nick  was  rather  quiet,  because  he  was 
thinking  of  certain  discoveries  he  had  made  about 
the  three  guests  at  his  father's  table  since  that  day 
when  they  had  all  sat  together  at  Mary  Lavenham' s 
tea-table,  three  cottages  away. 

During  that  time,  which  had  slipped  quietly  along, 
he  had  been  watching  and  listening,  and  thinking 
and  learning  in  the  company  of  these  four  people — 
the  Lonely  Lady,  the  Merman,  the  Admiral  and 
Bristles — and  he  had  come  to  love  them  all  with  a 
boyish  love  and  gratitude,  which  even  now,  when 

[167] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

this  story  of  his  life  is  being  written,  surges  into  his 
heart  at  the  remembrance  of  them.  But  during  those 
years  he  had  learned  to  know  their  faults  as  well 
as  their  virtues,  their  folly  as  well  as  their  wisdom, 
and  their  sadness  as  well  as  their  mirth.  For  each 
one  of  these  people,  gathered  together  by  some  freak 
of  fate  in  those  little  whitewashed  cottages  which 
stood  all  of  a  row  facing  the  great  sea,  had  been 
touched  by  tragedy,  and  the  knowledge  of  this, 
which  came  gradually  to  young  Nicholas  Barton, 
given  to  him  at  odd  times  in  little  fragments  of  self- 
revelation,  until  all  their  tales  were  told,  so  worked 
into  the  fibre  of  his  imagination  and  so  colored  his 
mental  outlook,  that  at  the  age  w^hen  most  boys  are 
careless  and  ignorant  of  the  death-traps  which  lie 
in  wait  for  men  and  women,  he  was  conscious  of 
tragic  perils  and  temptations,  and  of  the  deadly  pun- 
ishment exacted  for  human  error,  so  that  he  was 
thoughtful  beyond  his  years,  and  oppressed  with  the 
sadness  which  lurks  behind  the  outward  gaiety  of 
life. 

It  was  the  Merman — Edward  Frampton — who 
had  first  brought  him  face  to  face  with  ugly  horror, 
for  this  great  splendor  of  a  man,  so  tall  and  strong 
and  handsome,  so  courteous  and  gentle  and  gay- 
hearted,  in  his  normal  moods,  was,  at  certain  regu- 
lar periods,  degraded  into  a  savage,  besotted  beast, 
emptied  of  all  his  humanity.  It  was  quite  a  long 
time  after  Nick  had  seen  that  hideous  face  with 
[  i68  1 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

bloodshot  eyes  at  the  window,  before  he  came  to 
know  the  secret  of  this  change  in  the  man  who  was 
his  hero.  It  was  the  sight  of  a  drunken  man  down 
by  the  estuary  which  had  first  given  him  the  clue. 

"Why  does  that  man  stagger  about  hke  that?"  he 
asked  Polly,  who  was  walking  with  him. 

"The  wretch  is  drunk,"  said  Polly,  giving  the 
man  a  wide  berth. 

"How  does  he  get  drunk  ?"  asked  Nick. 

"By  swilling  too  much  beer,  or  wine,  or  spirits," 
said  Polly.  "I  can't  think  how  men  can  make  such 
beasts  of  themselves." 

"Does  it  make  them  beasts?" 

"Worse  than  beasts,  Master  Nick." 

He  pondered  over  these  words,  and  some  time 
later,  when  he  happened  to  be  in  the  Merman's  back 
yard — they  were  building  a  rabbit  hutch  together 
— he  saw  a  number  of  boxes  piled  up  against  the 
wall,  and  each  one  of  them  was  labelled  "Jones  and 
Sons,  Wine  and  Spirit  Merchants."  He  counted  the 
bottles  in  the  top  case.  There  were  twelve  of  them. 
Then  he  counted  the  boxes.    There  were  six. 

"Six  times  twelve  are  seventy-two,"  said  Nick. 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  Merman,  who  *vas  busy 
with  the  rabbit-hutch. 

"All  those  bottles,"  said  Nick.  "Did  you  drink 
all  the  stuff  that  was  in  them?" 

Then  Nick  wished  that  he  had  not  asked  the 
question,  for  a  strange  and  dreadful  look  came  into 

[169] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

the  Merman's  eyes,  and  for  a  moment  the  hand 
which  was  holding  the  hammer  trembled  so  that 
he  could  not  hammer  in  the  nail. 

He  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  said : 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  lend  a  hand 
with  this  job,  my  lad?" 

But  at  that  moment  Nick  had  had  a  revelation. 
He  knew  now  why  the  Merman  was  sometimes 
changed  into  a  different  being.  He  became  drunk, 
like  the  man  who  had  been  staggering  about  the 
riverside.  He  made  a  beast  of  himself  by  ''swill- 
ing" too  much  wine  or  spirit. 

It  was  long  after  that  when  Nick  became  aware 
that  this  great,  strong  man  looked  to  him  for  help, 
and  was  strangely  and  terribly  eager  for  his  com- 
pany when  the  craving  for  that  drink  came  upon 
him.  As  a  small  boy  he  did  not  understand  that 
his  comradeship  was  a  restraining  influence  upon 
the  golden-bearded  giant,  that  his  innocence,  his 
childish  imagination,  his  hero-worship,  the  touch 
of  his  small  hand,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  had  some 
divinity  in  them  which  fought  against  the  drink  devil 
clutching  at  the  man's  throat.  But  as  he  grew  from 
a  small  boy  into  a  big  boy,  some  vague  idea  of  this 
was  revealed  to  him.  He  knew  at  least  that  Edward 
Frampton  derived  some  comfort  from  his  company, 
that  he  felt  less  afraid  of  the  terror  which  haunted 
him  when  Nick  was  close,  and  that  he  was  some- 
times wistfully  and  pitifully  anxious  for  Nick  to  go 
[  170] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

a-walking  with  him.  He  spoke  queer  words  which 
hinted  at  these  things. 

"Nick,  old  chum,  don't  leave  me.  I  want  you — • 
badly." 

"Let  us  have  one  of  our  long  yarns  together,  out 
in  the  sunshine,  Nick.  I  am  scared  at  the  big  devil 
Loneliness  in  that  little  cottage  of  mine." 

"H  I  had  a  small  son  of  my  own,  like  you,  Nick, 
I  might  have  been  saved  from  things  which  make 
me  hate  myself." 

One  day  he  called  out  to  Nick  from  the  front 
garden : 

"Come  for  a  stroll,  old  chum?" 

"I  can't!"  said  Nick.  "I  have  got  some  lessons 
to  do." 

The  Merman's  face  seemed  to  be  clouded  by  a 
shadow. 

"Give  up  the  lessons  for  once.  I  must  have  you 
with  me.     I  really  must." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Nick.  "There's  something  I 
ought  to  finish.     I'll  come  to-morrow." 

The  Merman's  voice  trembled  when  he  spoke 
again. 

"Come  now.  To-morrow  will  be  too  late.  Come 
now,  Nick.     I  have  got  a  fit  of  the  Blue  Devils." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  and  eyes  which 
was  rather  frightening.  It  was  as  though  his  whole 
soul  called  out  to  this  small  boy  to  save  him  from 
a  great  danger. 

[171] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"All  right!"  said  Nick. 

They  went  off  to  the  sand-dunes  together,  the 
Merman  clasping  Nick's  hand,  rather  tightly,  as 
though  he  might  run  away.  And  during  the  first 
part  of  the  walk  he  was  quite  gay,  and  told  Nick 
the  life-story  of  Francis  Drake,  and  said  that  he, 
Edward  Frampton,  had  stood  on  the  very  spot  where 
Drake  had  first  seen  the  waters  of  the  Pacific,  pray- 
ing God  that  he  might  sail  a  ship  on  that  great  sea. 

"It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  faith  in  God,"  said 
Edward  Frampton.  "I  think  it  must  give  a  man  a 
grand  strength  and  courage,  because  he  believes  that 
if  God  is  on  his  side,  all  things  are  possible  to  him. 
The  reason  why  there  are  so  few  great  men  to-day 
is  that  faith  in  God  is  dwindling  out  of  the  hearts 
of  men.    That  is  bad  luck  for  us." 

This  was  quite  in  the  style  of  the  Merman,  and 
afterward  he  spoke  of  his  own  vagabond  life,  and 
of  the  way  in  which  he  had  never  done  anything 
worth  doing,  because  he  had  never  faced  the  diffi- 
culties of  life  and  overcome  them,  but  had  always 
taken  the  easier  road,  which  generally  led  into  a 
qwagmire. 

"Funny  thing,  Nick,"  he  said,  "but  in  this  hulk- 
ing body  of  mine  there  is  no  strength  of  will.  This 
right  arm  of  mine  is  as  strong  as  steel.  But  at 
the  heart  I  am  as  soft  as  putty.  How  do  you  ac- 
count for  that?" 

"I  expect  you  have  got  your  mother's  heart,"  said 
[  172  ] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

Nick,  who  since  certain  conversations  with  Bristles 
about  his  ancestors  was  a  great  believer  in  heredity. 

The  Merman  was  strangely  moved  by  these 
words,  and  took  off  his  hat  as  if  he  were  in  church. 

*'My  mother's  heart?"  he  said.  "God  bless  her. 
she  had  a  heart  of  gold." 

"Grold  is  soft,"  said  Nick. 

"That's  true,"  said  the  Merman. 

As  they  went  on  walking,  Nick  noticed  that  the 
man  kept  looking  back  over  his  shoulder,  as  though 
afraid  of  being  followed,  or  as  though  some  voice 
were  calling  him.  Once  or  twice  he  hesitated,  as 
though  tempted  to  turn  back,  but  he  went  on  again, 
talking  quickly  and  rather  excitedly  about  his 
mother,  who  was  a  queen  among  women,  and  about 
his  father,  who  had  been  a  General  and  had  fought 
in  many  battles,,  and  had  been  a  hard,  stern  man. 

"Do  you  know,  Nick,"  he  said,  "I  come  of  a 
very  great  and  distinguished  family?  Why,  I  have 
a  brother  now  who  knows  the  King  as  well  as  I 
know  Captain  Jack  Muffett,  and  I  have  two  uncles 
who  rule  over  provinces  in  India  as  big  as  the  whole 
of  Ireland.  Funny,  isn't  it  ?  If  they  saw  me  to-day 
they  would  walk  across  the  road,  and  pretend  they 
did  not  know  me.  Quite  right,  too,  for  I  am  the 
bad  boy  of  the  family." 

He  started,  as  though  Something  had  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder.  And  although  the  sun  was  scorch- 
ing his  face,  he  became  quite  pale,  as  though  some 
[173] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

great  fear  had  taken  hold  of  him.  But  he  clutched 
Nick's  hand  tighter,  and  talked  faster,  and  said : 

"Nick,  my  boy,  you  have  a  great  future  in  front 
of  you.  For  you  have  got  a  good  brain,  and  great 
qualities  of  character,  and  I  believe  the  good  fairies 
speak  to  you  and  keep  away  the  bad  fairies.  One 
of  these  days  we  shall  all  be  proud  of  you,  and  none 
more  proud  than  the  Merman,  who  taught  you  to 
swim  and  told  you  lots  of  yarns,  and  remembered 
all  that  was  best  in  his  own  boyhood  when  he  was 
in  your  company." 

When  he  had  spoken  those  words,  he  stopped  dead 
in  the  way  across  the  tussocky  grass  on  the  cliff 
side,  and  said: 

"I  have  forgotten  something.     I  must  go  back!" 

There  was  a  look  of  anguish  on  his  face,  which 
was  very  white.  He  shivered  in  the  hot  sunshine, 
as  though  he  was  very  cold,  though  beads  of  per- 
spiration broke  out  on  his  forehead. 

Nick  clasped  his  hand. 

**Don't  go  back!''  he  pleaded.  "Let  us  sit  here 
and  tell  tales." 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  the  Merman.  "I  must  go 
back.     Hold  my  hand  tight,  Nick,  or  I  must  go." 

Nick  held  his  hand  tight,  but  the  Merman  gave  a 
great  groan,  and  said: 

"It's  no  use.  The  Devils  are  at  me  again.  Not 
even  you  can  save  me  this  time,  Chummy." 

He  wrenched  his  hand  free  and  set  off  at  a  great 
[1741 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

pace,  like  a  hunted  man,  back  along  the  cliff  road, 
jumping  the  boulders,  and  then  running  across  the 
sands.  Nick  watched  his  figure,  with  a  strange  won- 
derment, a  sense  of  impending  horror.  That  night 
there  was  the  noise  of  destruction  in  the  Merman's 
cottage,  and  the  howling  of  Jem,  and  for  a  week 
Jem's  master  was  invisible. 

Well,  that  was  the  Merman's  tragedy,  and  the 
knowledge  of  it  was  a  black  cloud  behind  the  sun- 
shine of  Nick's  boyhood. 

The  Admiral's  tragedy  was  not  so  great,  yet  it 
was  a  lesson  to  Nick  of  the  great  tragic  spirit  of 
fate,  which  selected  some  men  for  its  victims. 

No  one  who  saw  Captain  Jack  Muffett  sailing  his 
dinghy  up  the  estuary,  or  making  model  boats  in 
his  front  garden,  or  accusing  himself  of  bash  ful- 
ness to  Miss  Lavenham,  to  whom  he  said  the  bold- 
est things,  would  have  imagined  that  this  merry 
old  man  was  hiding  beneath  his  merriment  a  mem- 
ory which  haunted  him  at  night,  which  made  him 
stare  sometimes  out  to  sea  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
which  had  spoiled  all  the  memories  of  his  seaman's 
life. 

In  spite  of  the  tragedy  which  had  ended  his 
career  at  sea,  the  Admiral  was  of  a  simple  and 
childlike  character,  and  often  his  natural  gaiety 
helped  him  to  forget  the  ghost-ship  of  the  White 
Seal.  Nick  found  it  easy  to  make  a  chum  of 
him,  because  he  knew  so  many  things  which  a  boy 
[175] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

wants  to  know,  and  was  very  keen  about  the  things 
which  a  boy  likes  to  do.  Miss  Lavenham  said  that 
she  did  not  know  which  was  the  biggest  boy — the 
Admiral  or  Nick — when  they  were  both  busy  in  the 
front  garden  carving  out  a  new  boat,  fitting  her  up 
with  spars  and  rigging,  and  making  sails  out  of 
pieces  of  the  Admiral's  old  shirts,  with  the  help  of 
big  needles  and  thick  cotton.  She  often  came  out 
of  her  front  door  to  peep  at  them,  or  put  her  head 
through  the  little  front  window  above  her  geranium 
pots,  to  smile  at  the  white-haired  old  man  and  the 
fair-haired  boy,  who  were  talking  very  seriously  to- 
gether while  they  were  sawing  and  hammering,  plan- 
ing and  shaving.  She  liked  to  hear  snatches  of 
their  conversation — Nick  asking  many  questions 
about  ships  and  shipping,  about  storms  and  ship- 
wrecks, about  desert  islands  and  savage  tribes,  the 
old  man  telling  his  yarns  as  one  comrade  to  another, 
interlarded  with  scraps  of  philosophy  and  high 
morality. 

"It's  a  great  training  in  discipline  and  duty — a 
life  at  sea.  The  fellow  that  skulks,  or  the  chap  who 
is  always  answering  back,  is  quickly  marked  down 
by  his  messmates  or  the  old  man." 

Nick  had  learned  by  this  time  that  sea  captains 
always  went  by  the  name  of  the  ''old  man." 

"We're  a  rough  lot,  we  seafaring  men.  We  get 
into  the  habit  of  using  awful  language — the  Lord 
forgive  me,  I  find  it  hard  to  forget  the  bad  words 

[  176  ] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

when  I'm  at  all  put  out — but  there's  many  a  soft 
heart  underneath  an  oily,  and,  taking  us  all  in  all, 
we're  honest,  hardworking,  and  God-fearing  ruf- 
fians. You  see,  my  lad,  when  you're  sailing,  day 
after  day  with  nought  but  the  sea  and  the  sky  around 
you,  and  with  only  a  leaky  ship  under  you,  big 
thoughts  come  into  your  head,  and  you  keep  turn- 
ing them  over,  like  a  plug  of  'baccy  in  your  hollow 
tooth.  What's  the  meaning  of  life?  What's  the 
meaning  of  death  ?  How  long  have  you  got  before 
God  whistles  you  up  aloft?  Why,  the  drunkenest, 
beastliest,  laziest  lubber  that  ever  signed  on  at 
Cardiff  and  jumped  the  pierhead,  as  the  saying  is, 
knows  that  God  stares  down  at  him  when  he's  got 
into  open  waters,  and  enters  up  his  sins  in  the  eter- 
nal log-book  for  the  great  court  of  inquiry.  That's 
why  the  seafaring  men  are  very  religious,  especially 
after  they've  been  making  beasts  of  themselves 
ashore.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,  there's  no 
getting  away  from  God  at  sea.  There's  nowhere  to 
hide." 

"It  must  be  rather  awkward  sometimes,"  said 
Nick  very  solemnly.  He  was  always  very  solemn 
when  the  Admiral  talked  about  God,  because  the  old 
man  seemed  to  have  had  a  good  deal  of  private  con- 
versation with  the  Almighty. 

''Devilish  awkward,"  said  the  Admiral,  ''especially 
when  your  conscience  is  biting  you  like  a  snake  with 
poisonous  fangs." 

[177] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Can't  you  get  away  from  God  in  the  cabin?" 
asked  Nick. 

"Not  often,"  said  the  Admiral,  "because  His  voice 
comes  calHng  down  in  the  wind.  Why,  many  a 
time  I've  heard  Him  caUing — 'J^^^  Muffett,  Jack 
Muffett,  you're  a  dreadful  bad  lot,  Jack  Muffett,  and 
I've  got  my  eye  on  you  and  don't  you  forget  it.'  " 

"It's  a  funny  thing,"  said  Nick,  "I  have  never 
heard  God  speak  to  me." 

"You  aren't  old  enough,"  said  the  Admiral,  "and 
you've  done  no  sin,  properly  so-called.  Please  God 
you  never  will." 

"I  expect  I'll  have  to,"  said  Nick.  "Seems  to  me 
one  must  do  a  bit  of  sin  before  one  grows  old." 

The  old  man  groaned. 

"Why,  that's  true  enough.  But  let  'em  be  light 
ones,  Nick,  not  them  scarlet-colored  ones." 

That  was  one  of  the  conversations  overheard  by 
Miss  Lavenham,  and  there  were  many  like  them. 
Sometimes  she  felt  called  upon  to  interrupt  these 
dialogues  on  life  and  religion,  which  were  getting 
too  deep,  she  thought,  for  a  boy's  mental  well-being, 
and  she  would  pop  her  head  out  of  the  window  and 
say : 

"Would  either  of  you  pirates  like  a  hot  cake^ 
just  escaped  from  the  oven?" 

Or— 

"How  about  a  nip  of  my  fine  old  lemonade,  for 
a  thirsty  throat?" 

[178] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

To  which  the  Admiral  would  say,  with  his  hand 
to  the  salute : 

''Why,  ma'am,  speaking  for  myself,  I  should  say 
it  would  be  a  most  unexpected  pleasure,  and  thank 
you  very  kindly." 

Then  to  Nick  he  would  say,  sotto  voce: 

"An  extraordinary  woman!  A  delightful,  kind- 
hearted  creature!  If  I  was  a  bit  younger  and  you 
was  a  bit  older,  she  might  take  her  choice  of  two 
lovers,  eh,  my  lad?" 

Thereupon  he  would  chuckle,  and  wink  at  Nick, 
and  call  him  ''a  sly  young  dog,"  and  a  favorite  with 
the  ladies. 

Miss  Lavenham  did  not  hide  from  Nick  that  she 
desired  his  friendship,  and  was  very  happy  when 
they  two  were  alone  together,  in  her  own  cottage, 
where  the  very  floor  was  scrubbed  so  clean  and  white 
(by  her  own  hands)  that  one  might  have  eaten  one's 
meal  off  it,  with  great  comfort  and  contentment, 
and  where  there  was  an  air  of  dainty  elegance  within 
these  rooms,  with  their  lace  window  curtains,  and 
water-color  paintings  and  china  ornaments,  and 
chintz-covered  chairs,  which  made  the  place  quite  a 
contrast  to  the  bachelor  dwellings  in  the  same  row 
of  cottages. 

Often  she  would  invite  Nick  in  and  show  him  al- 
bums full  of  sketches  which  she  had  made  in  Paris 
when  she  was  studying  art,  and  photographs  of  all 
the  places  she  had  visited  when  she  was  a  girl — Rome 
[  179] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

and  Florence  and  Venice,  and  other  cities  of  Europe 
— and  photographs  of  hundreds  of  pictures  by  the 
old  masters,  as  she  called  them,  which  she  had  seen 
in  the  great  picture  galleries. 

"You  must  have  been  very  rich  to  go  about  like 
that,''  said  Nick,  after  one  of  his  visits. 

Mary  Lavenham  laughed. 

"My  father  and  mother  were  rich.  But  that's  not 
the  same  thing,  is  it?" 

"Almost  the  same  thing,"  said  Nick.  "If  Bristles 
were  rich,  I  should  be  rich.  Don't  they  ever  give 
you  any  money  ?" 

"I  never  ask  for  it,"  said  Miss  Lavenham.  "I  am 
far  too  proud  and  independent." 

Then  she  jerked  her  head  up  a  little,  and  looked 
very  proud  indeed. 

"Have  you  quarrelled  with  'em?"  asked  Nick, 
after  a  moment's  thoughtfulness,  and  searching  for 
the  truth  with  his  insatiable  desire  for  knowledge. 

"What  a  boy  it* is  for  asking  questions!"  said 
Miss  Lavenham,  and  her  face  flushed  so  quickly  that 
Nick  thought  he  had  offended  her. 

But,  seeing  that,  she  took  hold  of  his  hand  and 
said,  "I  will  tell  you  my  httle  story,  if  you  promise 
to  keep  it  secret." 

"I  promise,"  said  Nick. 

"Because  I  don't  want  everybody  to  know  why  I 
am  such  a  very  lonely  lady,"  said  Miss  Lavenham. 

The  reason  why  she  was  such  a  very  lonely  lady 
[i8o] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

was  made  clear  in  the  story  she  told,  after  she  had 
shown  Nick  a  photograph  of  a  handsome  young  man 
in  the  uniform  of  an  Army  officer, 

'That  was  the  man  I  loved,"  said  Miss  Lavenham. 
"He  was  a  very  splendid  young  man,  so  gay,  Nick, 
that  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  his  laughter,  and  so  brave 
that  although  he  was  a  very  young  man  he  had  the 
medal  which  is  given  for  the  greatest  bravery." 

"I  know,''  said  Nick.    'The  Victoria  Cross." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Lavenham,  "and  here  it  is." 

She  went  to  a  little  cabinet,  and  pulled  out  a  little 
leather  case,  and  inside  was  the  bronze  medal  with 
the  words  "For  Valor." 

She  sat  with  it  in  her  lap,  and  looked  at  it  with 
shining  eyes. 

"One  day  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  of  course 
I  was  very  proud  and  happy,  because  to  marry  Dick 
seemed  the  very  best  thing  in  the  world." 

"And  didn't  you  marry  him  ?"  asked  Nick. 

Miss  Lavenham  looked  up,  and  laughed  at  him, 
though  her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  had  water  in  them. 

"If  I  had  married  him  my  name  would  not  be 
Mary  Lavenham  and  I  should  not  be  a  Lonely 
Lady." 

"Why  didn't  you  marry  him?"  asked  Nick.  "Did 
he  get  tired  of  you?" 

"Bless  the  boy,  what  questfons  he  asks!"   said 
Miss  Lavenham,  as  sharply  as  if  she  had  been  stung 
by  a  bee.     But  then  she  said  very  softly: 
[  1^7  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"That  was  not  the  reason.  It  was  because  my 
father  and  mother  did  not  want  me  to  marry  him. 
They  were  very  rich,  and  my  Dick  was  rather  poor, 
and  they  wanted  me  to  marry  a  man  with  a  big  name 
and  a  lot  of  money.  So  what  do  you  think  they 
didr 

Nick  could  not  give  a  guess. 

Miss  Lavenham's  voice  changed,  and  her  eyebrows 
joined  together  over  her  nose.  ''They  whispered  a 
lot  of  evil  things  about  my  poor  Dick,  and  they  made 
me  believe  that  he  was  a  bad  man,  who  had  done 
all  sorts  of  badness  which  no  gentleman  should  ever 
do.  Like  a  fool  I  believed  them,  and  sent  Dick 
back  the  little  ring  which  he  had  given  me,  and  all 
the  letters  which  he  had  written  me,  and  all  the  love 
which  I  had  stored  up  in  my  heart  for  him." 

*'And  what  did  he  do?"  asked  Nick. 

*'He  died,"  said  Miss  Lavenham,  speaking  the 
words  very  softly  and  quickly. 

She  did  not  tell  Nick  then  how  he  had  died.  It 
was  only  in  after  years  that  Nick  heard  that  part 
of  the  story.  But  he  knew  now  why  Miss  Laven- 
ham was  a  Lonely  Lady.  She  had  found  out  all  the 
falsehood  of  the  evil  things  that  had  been  told  her 
by  her  rich  father  and  mother,  and  she  had  never 
spoken  to  them  again,  after  the  time  when  she  had 
uttered  words  which  had  left  them  white  and  trem- 
bling, and  very  much  afraid  of  her.  She  had  gone 
to  study  art  in  Paris,  and  afterward  had  come  to 
[182] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

the  little  cottage  by  the  sea,  and  now  had  settled 
down  into  being  a  Lonely  Lady,  painting  pictures 
which  she  sold  just  well  enough  to  keep  her,  as  she 
said,  "poor  but  proud/' 

After  that  story  Nick  sat  as  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
thinking  over  it.  He  was  very  sorry  for  Miss  Lav- 
enham.  But  greater  than  his  pity  was  the  shock, 
something  like  fear,  which  came  to  him  with  the 
knowledge  that  a  father  and  mother  should  speak 
bad  things  about  a  good  man.  His  imagination 
shuddered  before  the  vision  of  such  great  wicked- 
ness in  life.  He  began  to  have  a  secret  fear  of  the 
big  world  into  which  one  day  he  would  have  to 
make  his  way,  on  the  great  adventure  of  manhood. 
Boy  as  he  was,  he  shrank  back  from  the  unknown 
terrors  of  evil  thoughts  and  evil  things,  which  lie 
in  wait  for  men  on  their  way  through  the  world. 
Always  the  memory  of  his  own  great  tragedy,  the 
going  away  of  Beauty,  her  capture  by  the  Beast,  gave 
even  to  his  childhood  a  sense  of  peril  lying  behind 
the  outward  peace  of  things,  and  in  his  boyhood 
the  haunting  memory  was  like  a  warning  of  unknown 
dangers,  which  might,  at  any  time,  pounce  out  upon 
him.  He  was  not  sure  even  of  Bristles,  nor  of  Polly. 
If  Beauty  had  gone,  why  not  Bristles  ?  Even  Polly 
might  be  captured  by  some  Beast,  in  the  disguise 
of  a  butcher,  or  a  fisherman.  For  Beauty's  disap- 
pearance had  made  all  the  groundwork  of  his  life 
[  183  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

insecure,  and  his  little  house  of  knowledge  was  built 
on  shifting  sands. 

Looking  back  on  these  days,  Nicholas  Barton 
knows  now  that  Miss  Lavenham  guessed  these  un- 
easy forebodings  in  his  heart,  and  did  her  best  to 
give  him  courage  and  strength,  to  fit  him  for  his 
days  of  great  adventure.  When  they  went  on  walks 
-together  in  the  flower  fields  of  the  countryside, 
when  she  taught  him  to  sketch  from  nature,  as  they 
sat  together  down  by  the  estuary,  drawing  and 
painting  the  boats  that  lay  on  the  mud-banks  which 
gleamed  like  gold  in  the  sun,  or  when  in  the  long 
winter  evenings  she  helped  him  with  his  lessons,  and 
read  out  old  tales  to  him,  her  talk  to  him  was  always 
of  the  future  that  lay  ahead. 

"One  of  these  days,  when  you  are  a  man,  Nick, 
you  will  remember  those  tales  of  the  Greek  Heroes, 
and  they  will  be  like  old  songs  in  your  heart,  call- 
ing to  you  to  hold  your  head  high  in  the  hour  of 
danger  or  defeat,  and  to  be  humble  and  meek  in  the 
hour  of  victory." 

Again — 

"I  like  a  man  to  be  strong,  Nick.  I  like  men  who 
are  not  afraid  of  taking  risks,  and  who  do  not  whine 
when  they  fail.  Every  man  should  try  to  win  the 
medal  "For  Valor." 

She  had  queer  ideas  about  the  love  of  men  for 
women. 

"When  you    are  a  young  man,"    she  said,    "a 

[184] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

woman  will  come  into  your  life,  and  catch  hold  of 
your  heart.  You  must  be  very  careful  then,  because 
there  are  some  women  who  when  they  catch  hold 
of  a  man's  heart  drag  him  down,  and  they  rob  him 
of  all  his  ideals,  and  of  all  his  courage,  and  leave 
him  a  poor  bruised  and  broken  wreck  of  a  man. 
I  have  seen  it  many  times.  So  you  must  take  care 
to  avoid  a  woman  like  that,  avoid  her  like  grim  death, 
Nick." 

"Perhaps  she  won't  be  avoided,"  said  Nick,  who 
was  no  longer  a  child.    "What  can  a  man  do  then?" 

"Run  away,"  said  Miss  Lavenham.  "Run  away 
as  hard  as  ever  he  can,  for  there  is  no  other  way  to 
safety." 

These  were  queer  conversations  between  a  woman 
and  a  boy,  but  it  was  Nick's  fate  to  live  among  queer 
people  who  talked  to  him  as  though  he  were  almost 
of  their  own  age,  but  just  young  enough  to  need  a 
little  guidance  from  their  wider  knowledge.  And 
it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  was  quick  to  see  the 
hint  of  mysteries  about  him  which  other  boys  of 
his  age  would  not  have  noticed,  and  very  quick  to 
feel  the  cold  touch  of  the  shadow  of  an  impending 
peril. 

It  was  a  sense  of  peril  which  came  to  him  quite 
sharply  when  he  read  the  words  on  the  front  page 
of  his  father's  new  book :  "To  the  Lonely  Lady," 
for  these  words,  which  were  a  sign  that  Beauty 
was  forgotten,  were  also  an  explanation  of  little 

['S51 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

happenings  which  at  this  time  had  made  him  wonder 
whether  there  was  to  be  another  upheaval  of  his 
home-Hfe. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  watching  his  father 
and  watching  Miss  Lavenham,  and  he  had  been 
certain  that  there  was  a  new  secret  between  them 
which  they  were  trying  to  hide  from  each  other, 
and  from  the  Merman,  who  was  also  watching.  He 
had  noticed,  for  instance,  that  his  father  had  be^ 
come  very  anxious  to  be  with  Miss  Lavenham  alone, 
and  that  he  invented  all  kinds  of  excuses  to  get  Nick 
out  of  the  way  when  there  was  any  chance  of  his 
being  alone  with  her.  Some  of  these  excuses  were 
so  absurd  that  even  Miss  Lavenham  had  laughed  at 
them,  as,  for  instance,  when  he  told  Nick  to  walk 
down  to  the  railway  station  to  get  the  right  time, 
and  when  he  asked  him  to  tramp  to  Whitecliffe — 
a  five-mile  walk — to  buy  a  pot  of  honey  from  an 
old  bee-keeper,  although  he  very  well  knew  that 
there  was  no  more  honey  to  be  got  from  that  source 
of  supply.  There  were  other  pretexts  made  by 
Bristles  to  get  Nick  out  of  the  way,  and  Nick  had 
been  hurt,  and  had  even  found  a  little  water  in  his 
eyes,  at  the  thought  that  his  father  was  beginning 
to  dislike  his  company. 

Then  he  had  discovered  that  Miss  Lavenham  was 

also  inventing  ways  of  being  alone  with  his  father, 

so  that  she  might  listen,  with  her  chin  propped  in 

the  hollow  of  her  hand,  while  Bristles  read  out  some 

[i86] 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  THE  LONELY  LADY 

of  the  manuscript  of  his  new  book.  She  invented 
excuses  when  the  Admiral  invited  her  to  a  saiUng 
trip  up  the  estuary,  antl  when  the  Merman  invited 
her  to  a  picnic  at  WhitecUffe,  and  Nick  was  as- 
tonished at  these  excuses,  because  in  former  days 
she  had  always  clapped  her  hands  with  joy  whenever 
she  received  such  an  invitation  from  the  Admiral 
or  the  Merman.  And  he  knew  that  some  of  these 
excuses  could  not  be  very  true,  for  after  she  had 
said  that  she  was  too  busy  with  her  needlework,  or 
too  busy  with  her  painting,  he  found  out  that  she 
had  been  sitting  with  Bristles  in  his  parlor  or  hers, 
until  the  twilight  had  crept  through  the  windows, 
and  had  only  hurried  in  when  the  voices  of  the  re- 
turning wanderers  had  warned  her  of  their  approach. 
More  than  once  or  twice  on  coming  home  like  this> 
Nick  had  wondered  why  his  father's  face  wore  such 
a  queer  look — he  had  a  queer,  shining  light  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  queer  little  smile  about  his  lips — and  why 
his  voice  had  trembled  slightly  when  he  had  said, 
"HuUoh,  Nick,  old  boy,  had  a  good  time?"  He  had 
aho  wondered  why  the  Merman  had  looked  from 
Miss  Lavenham's  face  to  his  father's  face  with  a 
furtive,  watchful,  curious  gaze,  which  he  tried  to 
hide,  and  why  Miss  Lavenham  was  uneasy  and  self- 
conscious,  so  that  her  face  changed  color,  when  she 
knew  that  he  was  watching  her  like  that. 

He  became  afraid  that  the  Merman  was  beginning 
to  avoid  his  father,  just  like  his  father  was  begin- 
[  187  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

ning  to  get  Nick  out  of  the  way,  by  all  sorts  of 
excuses.  For  the  Merman  no  longer  came  in  to  play 
cards,  and  gave  up  the  long  conversations  which  he 
had  liked  to  have  with  Bristles  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke;  and  if  they  met  on  the  sand-dunes,  or  out- 
side the  cottage,  or  along  the  road  to  Whitecliffe, 
the  Merman  strode  past  Bristles  with  a  curt  nod, 
which  was  very  different  from  the  old  hearty  way 
of  his  former  greetings. 

Then  one  day  something  happened  which  alarmed 
Nick  as  though  the  cottage  by  the  sea  were  threat- 
ened by  a  great  tidal  wave,  which  might  sweep  it 
away. 

It  was  one  afternoon,  when  he  was  coming  home 
from  a  long  tramp  in  the  country  with  the  Merman, 
who  had  been  in  one  of  his  gay  moods  and  had  told 
many  good  stories  of  his  life  as  a  palm-oil  ruffian 
on  the  West  Coast  of  Africa.  They  had  reached 
the  stile  which  crosses  the  footpath  from  Whit  eel  iff  e 
to  Barhampton,  by  way  of  the  fields,  when  suddenly 
the  Merman  halted,  and  laid  his  hand  heavily  on 
Nick's  arm,  and  said: 

*'Slow  down  a  bit.'' 

Nick  slowed  down,  startled  by  the  sharp  tone  of 
the  Merman's  voice,  and  then  a  little  way  ahead, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  tall  trees  by  the  side  of 
the  stream  which  runs  down  from  the  high  land  of 
Whiteclaffe,  he  saw  two  figures.  They  were  Miss 
Lavenham  and  his  father. 

[288  J 


THE  ADMIRAL  AND  TriE  LONELY  LADY 

They  were  walking  very  slowly,  and  presently 
came  to  a  standstill  under  a  tree  where  a  nightingale 
was  already  beginning  to  tune  up  for  his  evening 
love-song. 

"They  are  listening  to  the  bird,"  said  Nick. 

"Hush!"  said  the  Merman,  though  Miss  Laven- 
ham  and  Bristles  were  too  far  off  to  hear  Nick's 
words. 

At  that  moment  Nick  saw  his  father  take  both 
Miss  Lavenham's  hands  and  raise  them  to  his  lips; 
and  instantly  that  gesture  awakened  some  memory 
in  Nick's  mind,  which  put  sharp  pain  into  his  heart, 
even  before  he  had  remembered.  Then  the  mem- 
ory grew  clear  in  his  mind,  like  a  picture  which  has 
been  hidden  behind  a  dusty  pane  of  glass  now  wiped 
clean  by  a  sponge.  It  was  a  little,  clear-cut  picture 
of  Bristles  raising  another  woman's  hands  to  his 
lips,  while  he  smiled  down  into  another  woman's 
face,  which  was  Beauty's. 

The  Merman  gave  a  harsh  laugh,  and  Nick  look- 
ing up  at  him,  saw  that  he  was  very  pale,  as  if 
one  of  his  bad  moods  were  coming  on. 

"Let's  strike  across  the  fields  and  take  the  short 
cut  home,"  said  the  Merman,  and  without  waiting 
for  Nick,  he  strode  away  in  the  opposite  direction 
to  Miss  Lavenham  and  Bristles. 

Not  one  other  word  did  he  speak  on  the  way 
home,  but  once  he  gave  a  deep,  quivering  sigh,  as 
if  there  were  some  agony  in  his  heart. 
[189] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Nick  himself  was  not  in  the  mood  for  chatter. 
He  did  not  ask  a  single  question.  And  when  an 
hour  later  Bristles  came  home,  whistling  a  little 
tune,  until  he  said,  'Tired  out,  old  man?"  Nick  kept 
his  head  bent  over  his  book,  and  did  not  answer. 
For  in  that  hour  the  idea  had  come  to  him  that  Miss 
Lavenham  had  caught  hold  of  his  father's  heart,  and 
had  made  him  forget  Beauty,  whom  Nick  remem- 
bered as  though  she  had  come  back  to  him  after 
many  years. 


I  ^9^  ] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

The  change  which  had  taken  place  in  young  Nich- 
olas Barton  during  those  years  which  had  passed 
since  he  left  the  top-floor  flat  in  Battersea  Park — . 
a  change  not  only  of  body  but  of  mind — was  revealed 
to  him  quite  abruptly  one  day  when  he  met  a  ghost 
of  his  old  life  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  which  dazzled 
on  the  white  promenade  at  Barhampton  and  gave  a 
rich  golden  tint  to  the  sands  where  scores  of  chil- 
dren were  digging  castles.  It  was  the  holiday  sea- 
son, when  Barhampton  was  invaded  by  many 
families  who  crowded  into  the  boarding-houses  and 
lodging-houses,  and  who,  for  three  or  four  weeks, 
lived  between  sea  and  shore  until  the  pale  faces  were 
bronzed  almost  as  deeply  as  the  color  of  Nick's  own 
cheeks,  and  then  went  away  with  their  piles  of  lug- 
gage, to  make  way  for  other  families  who  took  the 
vacant  rooms.  It  was  the  season  when  the  donkeys, 
who  browsed  on  the  patch  of  scrubby  grass  outside 
the  whitewashed  cottages,  became  beasts  of  burden 
for  bare-legged  children;  when  the  black  and  white 
Pierrots  set  up  their  wooden  stages  on  the  sand  and 
gave  three  entertainments  a  day,  which  filled  the  air 
with  music-hall  songs,  whistled  and  hummed  for  the 
[  191  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

rest  of  the  year  by  the  permanent  inhabitants  of 
Barhampton,  who  could  not  get  the  tunes  out  of 
their  heads;  and  when  the  promenade  was  a  kind 
of  human  kaleidoscope  of  shifting  colors,  as  girls 
in  striped  frocks,  ladies  with  flaming  parasols, 
children  with  toy  balloons,  dogs  with  bows  in  their 
hair,  and  bald-headed  babies  in  wicker  go-carts 
passed  up  and  down  between  the  meal  times,  when 
there  was  a  little  quietude. 

It  was  the  season  when  Bristles  groaned  over  his 
manuscripts  because  the  music-hall  songs  came  float- 
ing through  the  open  window,  taking  possession  of 
his  brain ;  when  the  Merman  turned  his  back  on  the 
sea  awd  marched  into  the  country-side,  to  get  far 
from  the  madding  crowd,  when  the  Admiral 
carved  out  his  model  boats  in  the  back  yard  instead 
of  in  his  front  garden,  because  he  hated  being  stared 
at  by  gangs  of  small  children,  and  when  the  Lonely 
Lady  kept  a  constant  watch  upon  her  flower-beds 
and  pounced  out  at  intervals  with  a  whip  to  chase 
away  impertinent  and  intruding  dogs. 

Nick  himself  liked  the  holiday  season,  because  the 
crowds  gave  him  an  agreeable  sense  of  gaiety  and 
life.  He  liked  to  hear  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the 
children  on  the  sands,  he  envied  the  boys  and  girls 
who  ran  races  with  each  other,  on  donkey-back,  or 
with  bare  feet,  he  was  irresistibly  attracted  by  the 
black  and  white  Pierrots,  whose  comic  songs  and 
pathetic  ballads  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor,  and 
to  his  sentiment. 

[  192] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

But  there  was  another  reason  why  he  liked  the 
holiday  season  and  the  crowds  of  people  who  came 
from  London,  and  that  reason  he  kept  secret.  He 
had  a  queer  idea  that  one  day  he  might  find  Beauty 
among  them.  His  eyes  were  always  busy  searching 
for  her — looking  under  the  parasols  of  pretty  ladies, 
staring  wistfully  into  the  faces  of  women  in  striped 
frocks,  who  sat  reading  novels  in  the  folding  chairs 
with  linen  canopies,  watching  those  who  came  out 
of  the  bathing-machines,  with  little  cries  of  fear  and 
laughter  as  they  put  their  toes  into  the  water.  Some- 
times, though  he  was  unconscious  of  the  fact,  the 
searching,  wistful  eyes  of  this  tall  boy  with  the 
shabby  clothes,  and  the  tousled  hair,  and  the  deeply 
tanned  face,  attracted  the  notice  of  the  pretty  ladies, 
and  they  looked  after  him  as  he  passed,  and  seemed 
to  find  a  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  his  tall,  slim  figure, 
in  spite  of  his  shabbiness. 

Once  he  overheard  a  lady  say  as  he  went  by, 
"What  a  handsome  boy !" 

He  looked  round,  not  at  the  lady,  but  to  see  what 
boy  had  excited  her  admiration.  But  there  was  only 
a  donkey-boy  within  sight,  and  he  had  a  Puck-like, 
goblin  face.  It  did  not  occur  to  Nick,  even  for  a 
moment,  that  he  was  the  boy  referred  to.  As  yet 
he  had  not  any  self-consciousness  in  regard  to  his 
personal  appearance,  except  when  his  ragged  clothes 
sometimes  made  him  ashamed  in  the  company  of 
well-dressed  people. 

[193] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

It  was  on  the  promenade  that  he  met  the  ghost 
of  his  first  life.  At  least,  this  face  under  a  pink 
parasol  seemed  to  him  like  a  ghost  face,  or  a  dream 
face,  stirring  vague  memories,  making  his  pulse  beat 
for  a  moment,  like  it  did  sometimes  when  he  heard 
a  strain  of  music  which  Beauty  had  played  to  him 
in  the  long  ago. 

It  was  the  face  of  a  girl  with  golden  hair  plaited 
up  into  a  thick  pig-tail.  She  was  rather  tall  for  a 
girl  who  looked  about  thirteen  years  of  age,  and  she 
wore  a  white  frock  which  was  rather  short,  because 
of  her  long  legs.  She  was  a  very  elegant  girl. 
Her  white  frock  was  made  of  silk,  very  soft  and 
creamy-looking,  and  she  wore  a  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  with  a  curly  white  feather  in  it,  and  she 
had  shoes  of  shiny  leather  with  high  heels  and  big 
black  bows.  It  was  something  about  the  girl's  eyes 
and  mouth  which  startled  Nick  and  made  him  think 
of  a  dream  face.  They  were  brown  eyes  with 
laughter  in  them,  and  there  was  rather  a  scornful 
look  about  the  mouth,  as  if  it  was  in  the  habit  of 
speaking  scornful  words.  The  girl  was  walking 
with  a  lady  of  large  size,  and  they  stood  just  in  front 
of  Nick,  staring  at  a  boat  far  out  at  sea.  But  then, 
as  if  attracted  by  Nick's  gaze  upon  her,  the  girl 
shifted  her  pink  parasol,  turned  her  head  slightly, 
and  looked  round  so  that  their  eyes  met. 

"Hulloh,  Joan!"  said  Nick. 

The  words  slipped  from  him  suddenly,  just  as  the 
[  194  ] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

memory  of  this  face  suddenly  opened  a  little  cup- 
board in  his  brain.  At  this  meeting  with  Joan  Dar- 
racott,  the  girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat,  a  tremendous 
excitement  stirred  him,  so  that  his  heart  was  beat- 
ing like  a  sledge-hammer,  and  a  bright  light  came 
into  his  eyes.    He  felt  immensely  glad. 

And  Joan  did  not  seem  to  know  him.  At  his 
words  she  gave  a  look  of  surprise,  and  she  tightened 
her  mouth,  and  stared  at  him,  up  and  down,  as 
though  annoyed  that  so  shabby  a  boy  should  pre- 
sume to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  the  lady  by  her  side  who  answered  Nick. 
She  was  a  large  lady  in  height  and  width,  and  she 
raised  a  pair  of  glasses  which  she  carried  on  a 
tortoise-shell  handle,  and  stared  through  them  at 
Nick,  with  hard  eyes. 

'*Who  are  you,  boy?"  she  asked,  in  a  most  haughty 
voice. 

Nicholas  was  abashed.  He  could  not  understand 
why  Joan  did  not  recognize  him,  because  it  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  he  had  changed  as  much  as  Joan, 
since  they  had  last  met. 

He  stuttered  out  his  answer : 

"I'm  Nick.     I  used  to  live  in  the  top-floor  flat." 

"Nick  who?"  asked  the  large  lady.  "And  what 
top-floor  flat?" 

Before  he  could  answer,  Joan  Darracott  had  re- 
membered. She  laughed  as  though  it  were  a  good 
joke. 

[195] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Oh,  yes,  mother,  don't  you  remember?  I  used 
to  play  with  Nick.  He  was  the  boy  who  tore  out 
a  handful  of  my  hair." 

"Good  heavens,  child!"  said  the  large  lady,  gaz- 
ing now  at  Nick  as  though  he  were  a  dangerous 
young  animal. 

But  Joan  held  out  her  hand — ^it  was  in  a  white 
silk  glove — and  said  very  sweetly: 

"How  do  you  do,  Nick?  How  big  you  have 
grown!" 

"Have  I?"  said  Nick. 

That  was  all  he  could  say.  After  that  he  was 
quite  tongue-tied,  because  he  was  suddenly  self- 
conscious  about  his  shabby  clothes,  and  overwhelmed 
by  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  Joan  Darracott.  He 
wanted  desperately  to  talk  to  her,  but  he  could  not 
think  of  anything  to  say,  especially  when  the  large 
lady  was  staring  at  him  so  savagely,  and  he  thought 
it  would  be  better  to  slink  away  quickly  before  Joan 
became  ashamed  of  being  seen  with  him. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  with  a  queer  gulp  in  his 
voice.  He  Hfted  his  cap,  and,  not  daring  to  look  up 
into  Joan's  face  again,  went  quickly  across  the  sands. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  tremendously 
stirred  by  this  meeting  with  Joan.  It  brought  back 
with  a  rush  all  the  memories  of  his  life  at  Battersea, 
during  Beauty's  time.  He  went  to  the  chest  of 
drawers  in  his  bedroom  and  searched  for  the 
thimble  which  Joan  had  given  him  as  a  keepsake. 
[196] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

He  put  it  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  wondered 
whether  Joan  had  kept  his  mouth-organ.  How 
changed  she  was,  and  yet,  how  exactly  the  same 
after  one  became  accustomed  to  the  change!  She 
had  grown  Hke  AHce  in  Wonderland,  but  she  still 
wore  a  short  white  frock  with  long  black  stock- 
ings, and  her  hair  was  just  the  same  color,  only  more 
like  crinkled  gold — he  wished  she  had  not  remem- 
bered so  quickly  about  the  handful  he  had  taken — 
and  her  eyes  had  the  same  way  of  smiling,  and  her 
mouth  the  same  way  of  tightening  up  when  she  was 
vexed ;  even  two  little  freckles  were  still  on  her  left 
cheek,  just  as  when  he  had  teased  her  about  them 
years  ago. 

For  a  few  moments  Nick  was  overwhelmed  with 
the  thought  of  all  the  time  that  had  passed  since 
he  had  last  seen  the  girl  of  the  ground-floor  flat. 
He  counted  back  four  years,  five  years,  six  years. 
Good  heavens,  how  quietly  they  had  slipped  by! 
And  how  strange  it  was  that  not  until  he  saw  Joan 
again  did  he  realize  the  difference  those  years  had 
made  to  him  and  her.  It  made  him  feel  like  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  Then  another  emotion  took  posses- 
sion of  him.  It  was  a  passionate  regret  that  Joan 
had  become  too  "grand"  for  him.  Before  she  rec- 
ognized him  she  had  stared  at  him  as  though  he  were 
a  beggar  boy,  or  a  donkey  boy.  She  had  seen  the 
hole  at  his  right  elbow,  the  places  at  his  knees  which 
Polly  had  darned  and  darned.  With  sudden  anger 
[  197  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

in  his  heart  he  wished  to  goodness  she  had  not  come 
to  Barhampton  with  her  scornful  look  and  her 
haughty  mother.  They  were  both  fearfully  stuck- 
up     ..     . 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?"  asked  Bristles 
at  the  dinner-table.    "Anything  gone  wrong?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  said  Nick. 

But  Bristles  looked  at  him  once  or  twice  in  a 
furtive  way,  as  though  wondering  whether  he  might 
be  ill  or  upset  about  anything. 

For  three  days  Nick  avoided  the  sands,  and  the 
Pierrots,  and  the  promenade,  though  all  the  time 
something  seemed  to  tug  him  in  that  direction,  and 
he  had  to  resist  the  tug  by  exerting  all  his  will- 
power. But  on  the  fourth  day,  when  he  was  sitting 
on  the  sand-dunes  at  the  other  side  of  the  estuary 
quite  alone,  and  far  from  the  crowd,  a  voice  called 
to  him: 

"Nick!    Nick!    Is  that  you?" 

He  turned  his  head  quickly,  and  sat  up  in  the  sand, 
and  saw  Joan  a  little  way  off.  Then  she  walked 
forward  slowly,  twisting  her  pink  parasol  as  Nick 
sprang  up,  and  took  off  his  cap. 

"I  am  glad  I  have  found  you  at  last!"  she  said. 
"I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere." 

"Have  you?"  said  Nick.     "Why?" 

He  was  tremendously  surprised  that  she  should 
have  been  looking  for  him. 

Joan  laughed,  as  though  amused  by  his  surprise. 

[1981 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

"One  gets  so  bored  having  no  one  to  talk  to. 
Mother  is  always  lying  down  and  reading  novels. 
It's  an  absurd  thing  to  do  when  one  comes  to  the 
seaside.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nick. 

Joan  put  her  head  on  one  side,  and  looked  at 
Nick,  up  and  down,  so  that  he  quailed  before  her  in- 
quiring gaze. 

"I  suppose  you  really  are  Nick?  The  Nick  who 
used  to  tell  me  such  queer  fairy-tales?  You  are  so 
big  and  different!" 

"I  am  the  same  Nick,"  said  the  owner  of  the 
name.     "Shall  I  prove  it  to  you?" 

"If  you  please,"  said  Joan,  as  though  she  did 
not  care  very  much  whether  he  proved  it  or  not. 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  pulled  out  the 
thimble,  and  held  it  out  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"You  see,  I  have  kept  it  all  these  years." 

Joan  Darracott  stared  at  the  thimble  as  though 
it  might  have  been  a  curious  insect. 

"How  does  that  common  little  thimble  prove  that 
you  are  Nick?" 

"Why,  of  course  it  does !"  said  Nick,  disappointed 
at  her  forgetfulness.  "Don't  you  remember?  You 
gave  it  me  the  day  I  went  away,  as  a  keepsake,  in 
return  for  my  mouth-organ." 

Joan  poked  the  tip  of  her  parasol  into  the  sand, 
and  seemed  to  be  groping  back  in  her  memory. 

"Why,  yes !"  she  said  at  last.    "I  gave  that  mouth- 
[  199] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

organ  of  yours  to  a  grubby  little  Italian  boy  who 
came  round  with  a  monkey." 

Nick  felt  the  pang  of  another  disappointment.  He 
would  have  been  glad  if  Joan  had  treasured  the 
mouth-organ  in  remembrance  of  their  friendship. 
But  he  put  the  thimble  in  his  pocket  again,  and  said 
very  humbly: 

'I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you  again,  especially  as 
you're  not  ashamed  to  speak  to  me." 

Joan  pretended  to  be  surprised,  but  she  colored 
up  a  little,  because  she  remembered  that  she  had 
been  a  little  ashamed  to  speak  to  him  on  the  prome- 
nade. He  looked  almost  like  a  fisher  boy  in  his 
ragged  old  jersey  and  shabby  knickerbockers  and 
big  clumsy  boots." 

''Why  should  1  be  ashamed  to  speak  to  you, 
Nick?"  she  asked  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence. 

"Because  you  are  so  grand.  Like  a  Princess  com- 
pared with  me." 

She  seemed  to  take  that  as  a  compliment,  and 
laughed  in  a  pleased  way  as  she  twiddled  her  pink 
parasol. 

"I  wish  I  were  a  Princess !  That  would  be  jolly 
fun.  As  it  is,  mother  has  to  stay  at  beastly  board- 
ing houses  with  a  lot  of  old  cats  spying  on  one  from 
all  the  chairs  in  the  drawing-room." 

"Old  cats?     Why  do  they  keep  such  a  lot?" 

"Old  frumps,"  said  Joan.     "Dowdy  old  women 
who  cackle  at  one.     Surely  you  know  the  kind?" 
[  200] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

Then  she  spread  out  her  parasol  on  the  scrubby 
grass  and  sat  down  on  it,  with  her  knees  tucked  up. 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself  down  here?"  she 
asked.     "Do  you  live  here  all  the  time?" 

Nick  tried  to  give  her  in  a  few  words  some  idea 
of  his  life,  and  told  her  about  the  whitewashed  cot- 
tages and  about  the  Merman  and  the  Admiral  and 
the  Lonely  Lady,  whom  he  called  by  their  real 
names,  and  about  Bristles  and  his  books. 

She  seemed  to  listen  with  only  half  an  ear,  and 
did  not  seem  very  much  interested.  While  he  was 
speaking  she  picked  up  pebbles  and  flung  them  down 
the  sand  bank.  But  presently  she  asked  a  question 
which  made  Nick's  heart  beat. 

"What  has  become  of  your  mother — the  lady  you 
called  Beauty?    Is  she  down  here?" 

"No,"  said  Nick. 

"Dead  ?"  asked  Joan,  throwing  another  pebble. 

"No,"  said  Nick. 

Even  the  bronze  on  his  face  was  not  so  deep  as 
the  wave  of  color  which  swept  up  to  his  forehead, 
and  he  could  not  keep  his  voice  from  sounding  queer. 
Joan  glanced  round  at  him  and  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Why  isn't  she  with  you,  then?" 

Nick  was  silent  for  a  moment  or  two.  Then  he 
spoke  rather  hurriedly. 

"She  went  away.  I  would  rather  not  talk  about 
that,  if  you  don't  mind.    It — it  hurts." 

[201] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Joan.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be 
a  beast !" 

She  seemed  really  sorry,  and  Nick  liked  her  for 
that,  and  was  almost  tempted  to  tell  her  of  the  way 
in  which  Beauty's  going  away  had  hurt  him  more 
than  anything  that  had  ever  happened  in  his  life. 
But  he  decided  to  change  the  conversation. 

"Do  you  ever  make  discoveries  now?"  he  asked, 
smiling,  to  make  her  forget  his  previous  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Discoveries?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nick.  "Don't  you  remember  how 
we  used  to  discover  things  about  life  and  then  tell 
each  other?" 

"Oh,  I  am  too  old  for  that  now,"  said  Joan,  as  if 
she  were  a  very  old  woman  indeed.  "There's  noth- 
ing left  to  discover — in  that  way." 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  know  all  about 
life  already?"  asked  Nick.  "I  have  lots  of  things 
to  learn." 

Joan  seemed  to  pity  his  ignorance.  She  confessed 
to  him,  not  in  humility,  but  with  a  touch  of  arro- 
gance, that  she  knew  quite  as  much  as  she  wanted 
to  know.  She  knew,  for  instance,  that  life  on  the 
whole  was  rather  boring,  especially  with  a  mother 
who  was  supposed  to  be  delicate,  although  Joan  did 
not  believe  there  was  anything  the  matter  with  her, 
and  who  spent  half  her  days  lying  down,  reading 
novels. 

[  202  ] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

"But  don't  you  get  any  fun  out  of  life?"  asked 
Nick. 

"Well,  I  like  putting  on  pretty  frocks,  and  I  like 
good  things  to  eat,  when  I'm  hungry,  which  is  nearly 
always,  and  I  like  going  to  theatres  and  concerts, 
and  I  like  reading  books  by  Charles  Dickens  and 
Captain  Marryatt  and  Scott  and  Kingsley  and  the 
man  who  wrote  The  Three  Musketeers,*  and  decent 
kind  of  books  like  that.  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  I  get 
a  fair  amount  of  fun/' 

"And  don't  you  look  forward  to  big  things?" 
asked  Nick.  "It's  the  looking  forward  that  makes 
life  so  exciting.  There  are  sure  to  be  great  ad- 
ventures, some  of  them  good,  and  some  of  them  bad, 
and  one  never  knows  what  is  going  to  happen  to 
one." 

"I  know  exactly  what  will  happen  to  me,"  said 
Joan. 

"Good  Lord,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  when  I  get  old  enough  I  shall  get  awfully 
sick  of  staying  with  mother  while  she  lies  down  in 
the  afternoon,  and  I  shall  meet  a  rich  young  man, 
who  will  ask  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  shall  say 
yes,  and  marry  him,  and  then  I  shall  have  six  babies, 
and  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  watching  them  grow 
up,  and  dressing  them  in  pretty  frocks,  and  smack- 
ing them,  and  telling  them  how  good  /  was  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 
[  203  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

**How  do  you  know?"  asked  Nick.  He  was  as- 
tounded at  this  foreknowledge  of  fate. 

**Well,  of  course  I  don't  know.  But  I  expect  it 
will  come  like  that.     It  generally  does." 

**But  you  might  marry  a  poor  man,"  said  Nick, 
and  then  his  face  flushed  again,  because  it  came  into 
his  head  that  when  he  was  old  enough  he  would  like 
to  ask  Joan  to  be  his  wife. 

"I  know  I  ought  to,"  said  Joan.  ''All  the  best 
heroines  do  in  story  books.  But  I  don't  think  I 
shall.  I  should  never  be  able  to  dress  in  pretty 
frocks." 

"That  wouldn't  matter.  You  are  quite  pretty 
enough  to  do  without  them.  Any  old  thing  would 
suit  you." 

Joan  was  flattered  by  this  compliment,  which  Nick 
had  blurted  out  with  absolute  sincerity.  She  in- 
formed him  somewhat  later  in  the  conversation  that 
be  had  much  improved  since  she  remembered  him 
as  a  small,  rude  boy  in  Battersea  Park.  They  talked 
together  then  of  the  various  books  they  had  read, 
and  they  were  surprised  to  find  that  they  had  both 
read  so  many  books  by  the  same  authors. 

"It  is  funny  to  think  that  while  we  have  been 
away  from  each  other  all  these  years,  we  should 
have  been  having  the  same  adventures.  I  mean 
imaginary  adventures  in  books,  you  know." 

This  was  from  Nick. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  it's  funny,"  said  Joan. 
[204] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

"It's  what  mother  calls  the  long  arm  of  coincidence." 

"What  the  dickens  is  that?" 

"Oh,  things  that  happen  together  by  luck.  For 
instance,  it  was  the  long  arm  of  coincidence  which 
brought  me  here  when  you  were  here." 

"Yes,  that  was  luck !"  said  Nick. 

And  yet  it  was  not  altogether  luck,  for  there  were 
moments  during  Joan's  six  weeks'  stay  at  Bar- 
hampton  when  Nick  felt  hot  prickles  all  over  his 
body,  and  wished  the  earth  would  swallow  him  up, 
and  bemoaned  his  fate  as  the  impecunious  offspring 
of  a  poor  but  literary  father.  For  Joan  gave  him 
clearly  to  understand  that  she  had  better  meet  him 
on  the  lonely  side  of  the  estuary,  and  not  on  the 
promenade  side,  among  the  pretty  ladies  and  the 
smart  people,  and  although  she  said  It  was  because 
she  didn't  want  her  mother  to  interfere  with  her 
friendship — and  her  mother  was  always  making  a 
fuss  about  something — Nick  believed  that  it  was  be- 
cause of  his  shabby  clothes,  which  made  her  ashamed 
to  be  seen  with  him.  There  were  afternoons  when 
he  waited  for  her  in  vain  on  the  lonely  side  of  the 
estuary,  because,  as  she  confessed  afterward,  she 
had  taken  a  sixpenny  seat  in  front  of  the  black  and 
white  Pierrots,  and  enjoyed  herself  immensely,  quite 
forgetful  of  her  promise  to  meet  him  on  the  sand- 
dunes.  That  hurt  him  a  good  deal,  not  only  because 
he  had  waited  for  so  long  and  gone  home  gloomily, 
but  because  he  had  never  been  able  to  afford  a 
[205I 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

sixpenny  seat,  and  knew  that  even  if  he  had  pos- 
sessed a  sixpence  he  would  not  have  dared  to  sit 
beside  her  in  the  pubHc  gaze,  with  the  hole  at  the 
elbow  of  his  right  sleeve,  and  Polly's  darns  at  his 
knees.  There  were  times,  too,  when  she  came  across 
the  estuary  in  a  rather  scoffing,  teasing  mood,  and 
deliberately  picked  quarrels  with  him,  and  laughed 
at  his  ambitions  and  day-dreams,  which  he  told  her 
with  a  frank  simplicity,  wanting  her  sympathy — and 
made  him  angry  because  she  accused  him  of  being 
a  bad-tempered  fellow,  and  a  boy  with  country  man- 
ners, and  a  big  bully,  when  he  ventured  to  disagree 
with  her  opinions. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  the  humiliation  she  caused 
him,  he  could  not  forego  her  company.  Because 
there  were  long  afternoons  when  they  did  not  quar- 
rel, and  she  did  not  scoff — golden  afternoons  when 
they  wandered  along  the  shore  looking  for  jelly- 
fish, or  shells,  or  shrimps,  or  seaweed,  which  grew 
like  ferns  of  many  colors ;  when  they  climbed  to  the 
cliffs,  and  sat  perched  on  a  jutting  rock,  like  sea- 
birds  or  with  their  legs  dangling  over  the  ledge, 
while  they  watched  the  distant  ships  stealing  past 
like  ghosts  through  the  pearly  haze;  when  they  sat 
together  in  a  little  cave  of  red  sandstone  which  Nick 
had  discovered  a  year  before  and  made  his  sanctu- 
ary. He  had  carved  his  name  many  times  on  the 
soft,  moist  walls,  and  now  he  carved  Joan's  name  in 
big,  bold  letters  which  would  stand  the  test  of  time. 
[206] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

It  was  in  this  cave  that  Nick  found  his  greatest  hap- 
piness, for  sitting  there  in  the  deep  quietude  and  in. 
the  dim,  rosy  Hght  of  this  recess  in  the  rocks,  with 
a  soft  stretch  of  sand  at  the  entrance  way,  and  be- 
yond, the  great  sunHt  sea,  seen  as  in  a  frame  through 
the  opening  of  the  rocks,  it  seemed  that  there  were 
no  other  beings  in  the  world  but  they  two.  Some- 
times Joan's  spirit  seemed  to  be  melted  into  tender- 
ness by  this  lonely  little  solitude,  and  sitting  next  to 
Nick,  with  her  long  legs  tucked  under  her  white 
frock,  her  hand  would  steal  into  his,  and  she  would 
stay  there  quite  quietly  without  a  word,  staring  to 
the  far  horizon  with  serious  brown  eyes  filled  with 
reverie.  Once  Nick  ventured  to  offer  a  penny  for 
her  thoughts,  and  she  gave  them,  without  asking  for 
the  penny. 

"It  is  funny  how  the  sea  makes  one  seem  so  little, 
and  of  no  more  use  than  a  shrimp  In  a  water-pool. 
And  it  is  funny  how  you  and  I  are  sitting  here  to- 
gether, with  my  hand  holding  yours  and  in  a  little 
while,  perhaps,  we  shall  go  away  from  each  other, 
and  never  see  each  other  again." 

Nick  said  very  humbly  that  he  hoped  they  would 
always  know  each  other,  but  Joan  shook  her  head, 
and  went  on  telling  her  thoughts. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  why  God  made  so  many 
people  In  the  world,  and  what's  the  good  of  them 
all.     We  just  grow  up,  and  go  on  living,  until  the 
[  207  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

time  comes  to  die,  and  then  it's  all  over.  It's  beastly 
to  think  we've  got  to  die,  Nick." 

"It's  only  the  body  that  dies,  isn't  it?"  asked  Nick. 
"Don't  you  believe  in  Heaven  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  Mother  says  it's  best  to 
be  on  the  safe  side,  and  that  it's  a  sign  of  good 
breeding  to  believe  in  (jod,  in  a  moderate  kind  of 
way." 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  a  sign  of  good  breeding," 
said  Nick.  "The  Admiral — I  mean  Captain  Muffett 
—says  that  the  commonest  sailor  is  often  very  re- 
ligious, and  feels  that  God  is  close  to  him  at  sea." 

Joan  changed  the  conversation  abruptly,  which 
was  a  way  she  had. 

"I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  been  born  a  boy!  I 
often  tell  mother  it  was  pretty  rotten  of  her  to 
make  me  a  girl." 

"Girls  have  the  best  time,"  said  Nick. 

But  Joan  disagreed  with  him.  It  was  her  decided 
opinion  that  girls  were  utterly  useless,  and  that  they 
had  nothing  to  do  but  grizzle  and  grump  because 
they  weren't  allowed  to  do  anything  that  boys  could 
do. 

"What  would  you  do  if  you  were  a  boy?"  asked 
Nick. 

Joan  had  her  answer  ready. 

"I  should  go  out  into  the  world  in  search  of  ad- 
venture, and  have  a  splendid  time,  and  make  every- 
[208] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

body  think  how  brav6  I  was,  and  earn  a  lot  of 
money,  and  choose  the  most  beautiful  girl  for  my 
wife,  and  beat  her  when  she  was  in  a  bad  temper, 
and  do  exactly  what  I  jolly  well  liked." 

Nick,  who  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  cave, 
laughed  so  that  his  body  shook. 

*'It  sounds  all  right,"  he  said,  ''but  I  don't  think 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  any  of  those  things.  It  seems 
to  me  that  no  fellow  can  do  what  he  likes  in  this 
life.  It  is  life  that  does  what  it  likes  with  the 
fellow." 

''Oh,  that  is  a  rotten  way  of  looking  at  things!" 
said  Joan.  "A  man  can  do  what  he  wants  with  his 
life.  But  a  girl  has  to  sit  still  and  wait  until  things 
happen.    That's  all  the  difference." 

Nick  was  silent  for  quite  a  long  time.  Then  he 
sat  up,  and  put  his  hands  round  his  knees,  and  said : 

"If  life  will  let  me,  I  want  to  do  something  pretty 
good  one  day.  Do  you  think  I  could,  if  I  had  a 
shot  at  it?" 

Joan  looked  at  him  very  solemnly. 

"I  am  sure  you  could,  Nick.  You're  very  strong, 
and  you're  not  really  stupid,  and  if  you  weren't  so 
badly  dressed  you  would  be  frightfully  good-look- 
ing, you  know." 

Nick  blushed  up  to  his  eyes  at  these  words,  and 
then  laughed  uneasily. 

"Oh,  rot!"  he  said. 

But  though  he  objected  to  this  reference  to  his 
[209] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

looks,  he  was  glad  to  think  that  Joan  was  so  sure 
that  he  could  do  something  good.  And  in  his  heart 
that  day,  as  the  twilight  crept  into  the  cave,  and  as 
the  sea  outside  was  touched  with  the  crimson  light 
of  the  setting  sun,  he  made  a  vow  that  he  would 
"have  a  shot"  to  do  something  which  would  make 
Joan  less  ashamed  to  walk  with  him  among  the 
crowd,  and  glad,  perhaps,  to  share  his  honor.  For 
the  first  time  ambition  lit  a  little  fire  in  his  soul, 
and  the  boy  in  him  yearned  for  the  activity  and 
adventure  of  manhood. 

That  was  one  of  the  afternoons  when  Joan's  com- 
pany was  a  source  of  happiness.  There  were  other 
afternoons  when  her  mood  was  less  peaceful  and 
more  exciting,  when  she  was  like  a  wild  sprite, 
touched  with  a  little  madness,  so  that  he  wondered 
at  her.  She  called  to  him,  "Catch  me  if  you  can !" 
and  was  off  like  a  fawn  along  the  sands,  so  that 
in  his  clumsy  boots  he  could  not  keep  pace  with  her 
long  legs,  and  had  to  stand  at  last,  panting  and 
laughing,  while  she  skipped  out  upon  a  rock  and 
jeered  at  him.  There  she  unplaited  her  pig-tail  and 
shook  her  hair  free,  so  that  it  was  like  rippling  gold, 
and  pretended  to  be  a  mermaid,  peering  at  the  image 
of  her  face  in  the  mirror  of  the  sea,  and  singing  little 
songs  in  a  high  voice.  Then  she  took  off  her  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  walked  for  a  mile  or  more,  wad- 
ing in  the  waves,  until  the  edge  of  her  frock  was 
all  wet.  Nick  paddled  with  her,  though  it  seemed 
[210] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

to  him  a  girl's  game,  of  which  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed,  and  with  his  boots  and  stockings  slung 
over  his  shoulders,  and  with  his  hand  outstretched 
to  hers,  he  paced  through  the  little  waves,  wishing 
that  life  might  be  always  as  pleasant  as  this,  with 
Joan  holding  him  fast  by  the  hand,  while  she 
laughed,  and  gave  little  shrieks  of  fear  as  the  big 
waves  came  in,  and  cried  out  when  imaginary  crabs 
caught  hold  of  her  toes. 

"Why  don't  you  learn  to  swim,  Joan?"  he  asked. 
"It  is  much  more  fun  than  this.  I  would  teach  you 
in  no  time." 

But  Joan,  who  was  a  town-bred  girl,  said  that 
paddling  was  quite  good  enough  for  her,  and  that 
she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  undressing  in  the 
open  air,  with  all  the  world  looking  at  her. 

"There  is  nobody  here  but  me,"  said  Nick,  *'and 
I  would  not  look  at  you  until  you  were  in  the  water.'* 

But  Joan  refused  the  offer. 

"One  must  draw  the  line  somewhere,"  she  said, 
and  she  drew  it  very  definitely  at  the  lace  edging  of 
her  white  frock,  which  was  a  great  disappointment 
to  Nick,  because  as  she  would  not  bathe  he  could 
not  bathe,  and  he  yearned  for  the  water  like  a  young 
sea-lion. 

So  one  afternoon  followed  another,  and  Joan  was 
never  quite  the  same  girl  on  any  afternoon,  so  that 
Nick  was  never  sure  whether  she  would  be  sweet- 
tempered  or  quarrelsome,  dreamy  or  wild,  scoffing 

[211] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

or  tender,  and  so  that  he  found  her  wonderfully  per- 
plexing. Her  coming  to  Barhampton  created  a  tre- 
mendous disturbance  in  his  life,  which  was  not  al- 
together pleasant  and  painless.  For  he  could  not 
settle  down  to  his  old  pursuits,  and  his  studies  in 
the  mornings  and  evenings  became  farcical  because 
all  the  words  he  read  had  no  meaning  to  him,  and 
he  went  through  whole  chapters  without  understand- 
ing a  single  paragraph.  The  remembrance  of  Joan's 
beauty,  of  her  teasing  smile,  of  her  impudent,  mock- 
ing words,  of  her  swift  transitions  of  mood,  came 
between  him  and  his  books.  It  was  as  though  her 
coming  to  Barhampton  had  set  his  whole  being  on 
fire,  or  had  touched  him  with  some  magic  spell 
which  made  his  pulse  beat  more  quickly,  sent  the 
blood  through  his  veins  with  a  rush  of  new  vitality, 
and  made  all  his  senses  strangely  acute  and  impres- 
sionable, so  that  he  seemed  to  see  more  vividly,  to 
hear  more  intensely,  to  smell  with  nostrils  that  quiv- 
ered at  the  faintest  fragrance.  Even  his  sense  of 
touch  was  so  stimulated  that  sometimes,  when  Joan's 
hair  blew  across  his  face,  or  when  she  put  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve,  or  when  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder  as  they  sat  together  on  the  sand-dunes  or 
in  the  cave,  his  body  vibrated  as  though  with  a  cur- 
rent of  electricity.  It  was  as  if  his  whole  being  had 
been  awakened  into  a  new  life,  and  his  spirit  and 
body  lifted  up  by  a  wonderful  exhilaration.  He  was 
surprised  and  a  little  frightened  by  this  intensity 

[212] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

of  physical  and  mental  consciousness,  and  though  it 
was  joyous  at  times,  it  was  accompanied  always  by 
a  kind  of  irritability  or  excitability  which  was  almost 
painful  in  its  effects.  He  became  so  silent  at  home 
that  Bristles  and  Polly  were  both  alarmed  about 
him,  and  he  was  short-tempered  with  them  both 
when  they  inquired  tenderly  about  his  health,  hating 
himself  afterward  for  his  lack  of  self-control. 
Mary  Lavenham  also  noticed  the  change  in  him, 
and  suspected  the  cause  of  it,  for  one  day  she  asked 
him,  quite  suddenly  and  abruptly,  whether  he  had 
made  a  friend  of  any  girl  in  the  neighborhood.  For 
a  moment  he  was  tempted  to  lie  to  her,  but  the 
frankness  of  her  eyes  and  the  tenderness  of  her 
smile  saved  him  from  that  humiliation.  He  told 
her  about  Joan,  and  asked  her  if  he  might  bring 
her  into  tea  one  day. 

"Why,  that  will  be  splendid !"  said  Mary  Laven- 
ham, as  though  she  longed  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Nick's  friend,  and  she  pretended  not  to  notice  his 
self-consciousness  by  launching  into  a  description  of 
the  campaign  of  cooking  which  she  would  put  in 
hand  at  once,  in  order  to  produce  cakes  worthy  of 
a  young  lady  from  London. 

Then  she  asked  another  question  which  made  the 
color  sweep  into  Nick's  face. 

"Does  your  father  know  about  the  Princess 
Joan?" 

That  was  an  awkward  question,  for  Nick  was  con- 

[213] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

scious  of  a  certain  guiltiness  in  concealing  the  arrival 
of  Joan  from  Bristles.  Time  and  time  again  it  had 
been  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  for  some  reason 
which  he  could  not  explain,  he  had  not  revealed  the 
secret  of  his  solitary  walks  across  the  estuary,  from 
which  he  had  returned  late  for  tea.  He  was  con- 
scious that  between  him  and  Bristles  there  had 
grown  up  an  invisible  barrier  which  separated  them, 
but  this  seemed  to  him  because  of  the  secret  between 
his  father  and  Mary  Lavenham,  which  was  always 
at  the  back  of  his  mind,  as  a  haunting  and  disturb- 
ing thought.  Indeed,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives 
there  was  a  lack  of  candor  between  the  father  and 
son  who  had  been  all  in  all  to  each  other,  because 
Bristles  shirked  his  son's  eyes  for  some  reason  of 
his  own,  and  Nick  hid  his  inmost  thoughts  with  the 
shy  jealousy  of  adolescence.  So  when  Mary  Laven- 
ham asked  the  question,  "Does  your  father  know 
about  the  Princess  Joan?"  he  stuttered  out  a  few 
words  about  his  own  private  affairs  which  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  anybody  else. 

Mary  Lavenham  laughed  at  him,  and  shook  her 
head,  and  put  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"You  know  you  are  talking  nonsense,  there,  Sir 
Nick.  Hasn't  your  private  happiness  or  your  private 
unhappiness  anything  to  do  with  the  man  who  has 
been  your  best  comrade  all  these  years,  and  who 
worships  every  hair  on  your  head?    Come,  come!" 

For  some  reason  Nick  could  hardly  keep  tears  out 
[214] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

of  his  eyes,  though  he  had  grown  too  big  for  childish 
tears. 

"My  father  does  not  care  for  me  Uke  he  used  to 
do." 

Then  looking  very  straight  at  Mary  Lavenham, 
he  said : 

"He  is  more  interested  in  other  people  now." 

Miss  Lavenham  seemed  to  understand  his  mean- 
ing, for  she  drooped  her  eyes  before  his  gaze,  and 
her  face  flushed  very  deeply. 

"You  will  always  be  first  in  your  father's  heart," 
she  said,  rather  nervously.  "But  you  are  not  so 
greedy  as  to  want  all  his  love,  Nick?" 

He  did  not  answer  that,  but  sat  staring  at  the 
pattern  of  her  little  carpet,  moodily.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  Miss  Lavenham  had  by  those  words  con- 
fessed that  his  father  loved  her  too,  and  the  idea 
that  his  father  should  love  any  woman  but  Beauty, 
whom  he  had  first  loved — even  this  woman  who  had 
been  very  splendid  to  Nick  with  her  fine  frankness, 
her  fellowship,  and  her  laughing  jollity — was  intol- 
erable to  his  imagination.  Oh,  it  was  a  hateful  idea 
that  one  day  Beauty  might  come  back  and  find  an- 
other woman  in  her  place.  It  was  an  idea  which 
upset  the  balance  of  his  boyish  morality,  and  dis- 
turbed the  foundations  of  his  belief  in  loyalty  and 
love.  For  always  he  had  clung  to  the  vague  but 
unfading  hope  that  Beauty,  who  had  gone  away 
suddenly,  would  come  back  suddenly,  always  her 

[215] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

ghost  walked  with  him,  always  in  the  cottage  by 
the  sea  he  had  kept,  as  it  were,  a  vacant  chair  by 
the  hearthside,  for  the  errant  mother  who,  when 
she  was  tired  of  wandering,  would  return  to  these 
two  people  who  had  waited  for  her. 

He  could  not  explain  these  things  to  Mary  Lav- 
enham,  and  he  did  not  know  that  she  read  them  in 
his  eyes  and  that  they  caused  her  to  draw  back  from 
the  pleadings  of  a  father  who  did  not  guess  the 
reason  of  her  hesitations. 

The  tea-party  in  Miss  Lavenham's  cottage  was 
not  a  success  as  far  as  Nick  was  concerned.  Joan 
had  accepted  the  invitation  and  had  come  in  her 
best  clothes  and  with  her  best  company  manners, 
which  made  Nick  feel  more  shabby  than  ever,  and 
utterly  boorish.  She  wore  a  blue  silk  frock,  tied 
up  with  pink  bows,  and  white  silk  stockings  with 
patent  leather  shoes,  so  that  even  Miss  Lavenham 
was  abashed  by  this  grandeur  and  said : 

*'My  dear,  you  should  not  have  put  on  such  finery 
for  a  cottage  tea!  I  can  only  give  you  home-made 
cakes,  you  know." 

But  Joan  smiled  very  sweetly,  and  said  in  a 
slightly  patronizing  voice: 

"I  am  sure  this  cottage  is  perfectly  sweet,  and 
it  is  so  quaint  to  have  tea  in  such  a  tiny  room." 

Then  she  asked  Miss  Lavenham  how  many  ser- 
vants she  kept,  and  was  very  much  surprised  when 
she  learned  that  Miss  Lavenham  was  not  only  her 

[216] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

own  mistress  but  her  own  servant,  and  ordered  her- 
self about,  and  gave  herself  a  day  off  occasionally, 
and  answered  herself  back  when  she  was  cross. 

"Doesn't  it  make  your  hands  rather  rough?" 
asked  Joan. 

"It  makes  them  honest  hands,"  said  Miss  Laven- 
ham,  and  she  held  them  out  laughingly,,  and  said, 
"I  am  proud  of  them,  because  they  are  not  too  lazy 
to  do  a  woman's  work." 

"How  weird!"  said  Joan.  "Mother  thinks  it  is 
so  unladylike  to  do  housework.  She  is  proud  be- 
cause she  has  never  even  made  her  own  bed." 

Mary  Lavenham  rubbed  the  side  of  her  nose, 
which  was  a  funny  little  habit  she  had  when  she 
was  vexed  with  something. 

"I  am  afraid  your  mother  and  I  would  di^gree 
with  each  other,"  she  remarked,  and  then,  as  though 
she  had  been  a  little  bit  impolite  to  her  visitor,  she 
laughed  and  said: 

"Of  course  I  know  I  am  not  quite  a  respectable 
person,  and  I  feel  very  much  honored  that  a  young 
lady  of  fashion  should  visit  my  humble  dwelling." 

"I  am  sure  I  am  delighted,"  said  Joan. 

Nick  was  rather  abashed  when  his  father  strolled 
in  to  tea  and  was  duly  introduced  to  Joan  by  Miss 
Lavenham,  who  called  her  "Princess  Joan  of  Bat- 
tersea  Park."  It  was  obvious  to  Nick  that  Miss 
Lavenham  had  told  Bristles  about  her  before  the 
tea-party,  because  he  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised 
[217] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

to  see  her,  and  knew  her  real  name  of  Joan  Darra- 
cott. 

'1  remember  you  quite  well,"  he  said  rather 
nervously.  "You  were  the  little  girl  who  used  to 
pick  up  the  things  Nick  dropped  from  the  balcony." 

Then  the  Merman  came  in,  and  after  him  the  Ad- 
miral, so  that  it  was  quite  an  extensive  tea-party, 
and  soon  all  but  Nick  were  talking  away  as  gaily 
as  possible;  as  if  it  were  a  great  event  to  have  a 
visitor.  The  Merman  behaved  to  Joan  with  great 
deference,  and  called  her  "Princess,"  and  "Your 
Royal  Highness"  as  he  handed  her  the  cakes,  and 
was  more  cheerful  and  amusing  than  Nick  had  seen 
him  for  some  time.  Only  once  or  twice  did  a  shadow 
come  over  his  face  as  Mary  Lavenham  exchanged 
private  kind  of  smiles  with  Bristles,  and  even  then 
he  tried  to  get  back  to  his  old  friendliness  with 
Bristles,  and  kept  passing  him  the  bread  and  butter, 
as  though  to  show  there  was  no  ill  feeling. 

The  Admiral  was  in  quite  his  best  form,  and 
told  a  number  of  sea  stories,  and  made  Joan  open  her 
eyes  wide  with  wonder  when  he  described  the  pecu- 
liar ladies  who  had  honored  him  with  their  friend- 
ship in  his  younger  days.  One  of  them  was  a  Queen, 
of  an  island  in  the  Pacific,  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  him,  because  as  he  afterward  learned,  she 
thought  he  would  be  very  tender  to  eat.  Another 
was  a  copper-colored  lady,  who  dressed  in  a  neck- 
lace, and  who  desired  to  worship  him  as  a  god,  be- 

[3l8] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

cause  he  smoked  a  cutty  pipe  and  wore  gold 
ear-rings  for  the  sake  of  his  eyesight.  Then  there 
was  a  lady  who  wished  to  be  his  mother-in-law,  and 
who  ordered  him  to  be  beaten  on  the  soles  of  his 
feet  until  he  died,  because  he  would  not  consent  to 
marry  her  eldest  and  ugliest  daughter.  Fortunately 
he  was  rescued  in  the  nick  of  time,  by  the  skipper 
and  crew  of  the  Sea-mew  from  Cardiff. 

"I  assure  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  Admiral,  turn- 
ing to  Joan,  "that  I  have  had  many  hairbreadth  es- 
capes from  matrimony.  Even  now  I  do  not  feel 
quite  safe." 

Hereupon  he  looked  over  to  Miss  Lavenham,  and 
winked  prodigiously,  and  seemed  surprised  at  the 
laughter  which  went  round  the  table.  Only  Nick 
was  rather  silent  and  tongue-tied.  For  some  reason 
he  was  ill  at  ease,  and  wished  that  he  had  not 
brought  Joan  to  this  tea-party.  It  gave  him  a  queer 
pain  to  see  her  laughing  and  chatting  with  these 
friends  of  his,  ignoring  him  completely.  She  was 
excited  by  their  attention  to  her,  and  her  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  bright  light  so 
that  she  looked  prettier  than  he  had  ever  seen  her 
before.  But  some  worm  gnawed  at  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  kind  of  outrage  that  she  should  be  taken 
possession  of  like  this  by  other  people.  She  had 
been  his  secret.  She  had  been  all  his  when  they  sat 
together  in  the  cave,  or  on  the  sand-dunes.  It  was 
horrible  that  he  had  to  give  her  up  to  others,  and 
[219] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

sit  out  in  the  cold,  estranged  from  her  because  these 
grown-ups  monopoHzed  her  interest.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  knew  the  pang  of  jealousy,  and 
there  was  a  rage  in  his  heart. 

A  few  days  after  that  tea-party,  he  had  Joan 
all  to  himself  again  in  the  little  cave  which  they 
had  made  their  hiding  place,  but  the  happiness  which 
gave  an  enchantment  to  this  hole  in  the  rocks,  so 
that  in  its  twilight  there  seemed  to  lurk  all  his  day 
dreams  of  the  beautiful  things  that  were  waiting 
for  him  in  life,  so  that  its  sandstone  walls  were 
clothed  with  magic  tapestries,  woven  out  of  his 
imaginings,  so  that  this  girl  in  the  white  frock,  sit- 
ting with  her  knees  tucked  up,  was  a  creature  of 
mystical  loveliness,  fragrant  with  the  odorous  per- 
fumes of  all  life's  sweetness,  touched  with  the 
glamor  of  divine  maidenhood,  mysterious,  baffling, 
and  elusive  in  her  nature  as  the  secret  of  life  itself — 
was  a  little  spoiled  by  the  dread  knowledge  that  it 
was  the  last  of  these  golden  hours  he  would  have 
with  her  alone.  On  the  following  day  she  would 
go  back  to  London  and  leave  him  to  his  loneliness. 
It  was  that  sense  of  future  loneliness  which  weighed 
down  his  spirit. 

''Joan,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do 
without  you." 

He  spoke  emotionally,  but  Joan  answered  in  a 
light-hearted  way. 

"Exactly  what  you  did  before  I  came,  Nick." 
[  220] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

"That's  impossible.     Nothing  will  be  the  same." 

Joan  laughed,  with  her  face  to  the  sea.  She  had 
made  her  two  hands  into  a  telescope,  and  was  squint- 
ing through  them  at  a  ship  on  the  horizon  line. 

*'I  am  sure  I  shan't  take  anything  away  with  me. 
The  cliffs  will  stay  where  they  are,  and  this  cave 
will  still  be  here,  and  the  sands  will  still  be  there. 
Won't  they?" 

"No,"  said  Nick. 

She  was  surprised  by  his  emphatic  denial,  and 
half  turned  her  head  to  say: 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  after  you  have  gone  this  cave  will  be 
emptied  of — of  all  that  makes  it  worth  coming  to. 
When  I  come  here  alone,  I  shall  only  see  your  ghost 
sitting  here — not  your  real  self." 

"Good  gracious !"  cried  Joan,  "I  hope  you  won't 
find  my  ghost  here.  You  make  me  feel  quite  creepy, 
you  quaint  boy." 

"I  live  a  lot  with  ghosts,"  said  Nick,  in  a  low 
voice.  He  was  thinking  of  Beauty's  ghost  which 
had  always  seemed  close  to  him.  "Sometimes  they 
make  me  feel  less  alone." 

Joan  pulled  her  knees  up  higher,  and  clasped  them 
tighter,  and  put  her  pointed  chin  down  upon  them. 

"It's  funny  to  think  I  shall  be  back  in  London  to- 
morrow," she  said  presently.  "I  shall  think  of  the 
sea  when  I  hear  the  traffic  swishing  through  the 
streets." 

[  221  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Is  that  all  you  will  think  of?"  asked  Nick,  hop- 
ing that  she  would  think  of  him  a  little. 

"And  I  shall  think  how  jolly  glad  I  am  to  get 
back  again,  so  that  I  can  borrow  some  books  out  of 
the  library,  and  go  to  the  theatre  with  mother,  when 
she's  tired  of  lying  down.  A  holiday  is  all  very 
well,  but  one  gets  awfully  sick  of  it,  don't  you 
think?" 

"I'm  sorry  you  haven't  enjoyed  yourself,"  said 
Nick,  dismally. 

"Oh,  but  I  have!"  said  Joan.  "Still,  enough  is 
as  good  as  a  feast  .  .  .  And  now  I  must  be 
going." 

"No,  don't  go!"  said  Nick. 

She  had  jumped  up,  and  was  smoothing  her  frock 
down,  but  she  was  startled  at  his  voice,  and  at  the 
queer  look  on  his  face,  which  had  gone  white,  even 
in  spite  of  its  tanned  skin. 

"Don't  you  feel  well?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  feel  rotten.  I  hate  to  think  that  this  is 
your  last  afternoon  here.  Perhaps  when  you  go 
outside  the  cave  I  shall  lose  you,  always." 

"Oh,  I  expect  I  shall  see  you  in  London,"  said 
Joan  cheerfully.  "Everybody  comes  to  London. 
It's  the  only  place  where  there's  anything  to  do."      , 

She  stepped  out  of  the  cave,  and  stood  there, 
framed  in  the  entrance  way  of  the  rocks,  with  the 
sea  behind  her.  From  the  twilight  of  the  cave  Nick 
gazed  at  her,  this  creature  of  light,  whose  hair  shone 

[  222  ] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

like  crinkled  gold,  whose  white  frock  was  glamor- 
ous in  the  sunshine. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  called  out,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  him,  ran  down  to  the  smooth  sands. 

"Poor  empty  cave!"  said  Nick,  in  a  queer,  low 
voice.  Then  he  followed  her  and  at  the  estuary 
said  good-bye  to  her,  according  to  the  rule  she  had 
made.  It  was  tea-time,  and  there  were  few  people 
about.  There  were  only  two  old  boatmen  near  them, 
leaning  against  a  pile  of  timber,  and  some  children 
going  homeward  with  their  pails. 

Joan  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-by,  Nick!" 

She  glanced  up  into  his  face  with  her  laughing 
eyes,  and  then  said: 

"Thanks  awfully.  You  have  been  frightfully 
decent." 

He  could  not  say  good-by.  He  held  her  hand 
tighter  than  he  knew,  and  then  he  stuttered  out  a 
few  words,  in  a  gruff,  jerky  way. 

"Look  here — do  you  mind? — Give  me  a  kiss.  I 
— I  want  it  more  than  anything.  For  remembrance." 

"If  you  like,"  said  Joan. 

She  held  up  her  face  to  him,  and  he  kissed  her  on 
the  cheek,  very  lightly  and  quickly,  as  though  afraid. 

"Silly  boy!"  she  said,  and  as  though  to  show  him 

how  to  do  such  things,  she  put  her  hands  upon  his 

shoulders,  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips.     Then  she 

gave  a  funny  little  laugh,  and  sped  away,  leaving 

[223] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

him  alone,  overcome  by  a  strange  faintness,  as 
though  for  a  moment  his  senses  had  swooned. 

She  turned,  on  the  other  side  of  the  estuary,  to 
wave  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  answered  with  his 
cap.  Then  she  disappeared  behind  one  of  the  wind- 
shelters,  and  he  felt,  suddenly,  as  though  there  were 
a  great  emptiness  in  his  heart,  and  a  tremendous 
loneliness  about  him:  Boy  as  he  was,  he  knew  the 
desolation  of  love,  the  pain  of  it,  the  agony  of  sep- 
aration, the  death-throes  that  lie  in  the  first  farewell. 

He  strode  home  moodily,  and  tried  to  hide  his 
heart-ache.  But  by  a  glance  from  his  father's  eyes, 
by  the  kindly  way  in  which  he  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder  and  said,  "Well,  old  man?"  he  knew  that 
Bristles  had  guessed  what  was  wrong  with  him. 
That  night  he  went  early  to  bed,  but  not  early  to 
sleep.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  on  the  side  of  his 
bed,  staring  at  the  blank  whitewashed  wall  upon 
which  the  candle-light  flickered.  Joan's  departure 
had  ended  another  chapter  in  his  life.  He  was  no 
longer  as  he  had  been  before  her  coming.  She  had 
unlocked  some  little  door  in  his  heart,  and  let  out 
a  legion  of  desires,  of  hopes,  of  ambitions.  He  must 
begin  to  carve  out  his  way,  to  prepare  himself  for 
the  journey  into  the  great  world,  to  look  ahead  to 
his  goal.  He  could  no  longer  drift  on  aimlessly,  in 
the  same  old  dreamy  way  of  boyhood.  He  could 
see,  even  now,  the  day  was  coming  when  this  little 
cottage  by  the  sea  would  no  longer  be  large  enough 
[224] 


THE  YOUNG  LADY  WITH  LONG  LEGS 

to  hold  him.  He  would  have  to  go  out  and  away. 
In  the  future  that  lay  before  him  two  spirit  voices 
would  call  so  that  he  must  answer  them.  Two  dream 
faces  would  haunt  him,  two  ghosts  beckon  to  him. 
The  face  of  Beauty,  his  mother,  and  the  face  of 
Joan,  his  comrade,  were  visible  to  him,  even  in  the 
darkness  through  which  the  whitewashed  walls  of  his 
little  bedroom  showed  faintly  when  the  candle  had 
guttered  out;  and  that  night  in  his  sleep  they  were 
straiagely  intermingled,  so  that  they  seemed  like 
the  face  of  one  girl-woman,  the  spirit  of  womanhood 
itself. 


[225] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

In  most  lives  events  are  of  less  importance  than 
ideas.  The  things  which  happen  in  a  man's  out- 
ward experience  are  trivial  compared  with  the  things 
which  happen  inside  his  brain.  The  great  crises  of 
history  arrive,  not  by  definite  acts,  but  by  a  host 
of  indefinite  tendencies  of  thought,  culminating  in 
a  supreme  conviction.  So  it  was  in  the  history  of 
Nicholas  Barton.  Looking  back  upon  his  early 
days,  he  remembers  few  episodes  or  adventurous  in- 
cidents of  any  great  influence  upon  his  character 
and  fate,  but  only  the  ceaseless  adventure  of  a  mind 
struggling  forward  to  an  uncertain  goal,  of  a  spirit 
yearning  with  undefined  desires,  of  an  imagination 
thrilled  by  the  dim  half  lights  of  truth.  He  remem- 
bers moments  of  revelation,  when  a  conversation, 
a  few  chance  words,  a  sudden  flash  of  intuition, 
changed  his  whole  aspect  of  life,  or  helped  him  up  to 
a  new  plane  of  understanding,  or  made  his  whole 
being  quiver  with  an  emotion  which  became  a  new 
source  of  inspiration.  He  remembers  also  a  thou- 
sand small  details  of  experience,  all  blending  into 
one  broad,  even  pressure  upon  his  intelligence,  and 
[226] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

imperceptibly  directing  its  character  and  evolution. 
He  knows  now  that  the  quiet  monotony  of  his  Hfe 
in  that  Httle  cottage  by  the  sea,  so  uneventful  and 
unexciting  as  it  seemed,  was  charged  with  forces 
which  he  was  powerless  to  resist,  but  which  moulded 
him  like  clay  on  the  potter's  wheel. 

One  such  force  was  the  quiet  but  steady  influence 
of  Mary  Lavenham,  whom  he  had  called  the  Lonely 
Lady.  This  curious  woman  of  blunt  speech  and 
blunt  manners  had  something  in  her  character  which 
had  put  a  spell  upon  the  four  people  who  were  her 
closest  neighbors.  She  had  no  particular  beauty, 
even  her  nose  had  a  tendency  to  bluntness,  and  her 
chin  was  almost  masculine  in  its  strength,  but  her 
eyes,  gray  when  they  were  tranquil,  steel-blue  when 
they  were  lighted  with  emotion,  seemed  to  look  out 
with  an  utter  truthfulness  and  candor  which  cap- 
tured the  confidence  of  her  friends,  so  that  they 
confessed  themselves  to  her,  and  revealed  secrets 
which  they  had  kept  hidden  from  all  others.  Her 
gifts  of  practical  helpfulness,  too,  were  so  great  that 
men,  who  are  helpless  in  many  things  belonging  to 
the  sphere  of  women,  called  to  her  when  they  were 
in  distress.  It  was,  for  instance,  to  Mary  Lavenham 
that  Captain  Muffett  went  when  a  button  fell  off 
his  blue  reefer  jacket,  when  his  second-best  braces 
broke,  when  he  set  his  kitchen  on  fire  during  some 
experimental  cookery  with  a  new  gas  stove  and  a 
kippered  herring,  and  when  he  was  threatened  with 
[227] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  week-end  visit  from  one  of  his  elderly  maiden  sis- 
ters, who  occasionally  invaded  his  small  cottage  and 
uttered  severe  criticisms  upon  his  domestic  economy. 
It  was  also  Mary  Lavenham  that  he  called  upon 
when  he  was  in  low  spirits  because  the  gout  devils 
were  pulling  his  left  leg,  and  when  he  was  beset 
with  religious  difficulties,  because  as  a  seafaring 
man  he  could  not  reconcile  the  story  of  Noah's  Ark 
with  his  knowledge  of  ships  and  shipping.  Always 
he  found  comfort,  and  many  times  to  Nick  he  con- 
fessed his  gratitude  for  the  friendship  of  this  woman, 
whose  wisdom  and  kindness  were  beyond  those  of 
any  other  woman,  except  his  own  mother,  dead  these 
fifty  years. 

"My  lad,"  he  said,  "if  ever  you  lose  your  bear- 
ings in  a  black  fog  of  doubt,  just  you  send  up  a 
rocket  for  Mary  Lavenham.  She'll  pilot  you  into 
safe  waters,  and  make  no  charge  for  the  service." 

Once  he  said  very  solemnly,  "I  love  the  ground 
that  woman  treads  on.  To  go  into  that  cottage  of 
hers  is  better  than  a  sermon.  She  makes  one  feel 
good." 

In  more  jocular  moods  he  vowed  that  for  Mary 
Lavenham  he  had  a  romantic  passion  which  was 
wearing  him  to  a  shadow,  and  that  only  the  fear 
of  a  refusal  prevented  him  from  popping  the  ques- 
tion to  her,  and  buying  a  plain  gold  ring. 

And  once,  after  repeating  that  well-worn  joke,  he 

[228] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

added  very  mysteriously,  staring  hard  at  Nick,  and 
speaking  in  a  hoarse  whisper: 

**But  I'm  not  the  only  one  to  feel  like  that  for 
Mary  Lavenham.    There's  rivals  about,  sonny." 

Thereupon  he  winked  convulsively  with  one  side 
of  his  face,  but  in  a  solemn  way. 

"Rivals?''  said  Nick,  lifting  his  eyebrows. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "And  if  you'll  not  split 
to  a  living  soul,  I'll  give  you  the  name  of  one  of 
them,  and  leave  you  to  guess  the  other." 

"All  right,"  said  Nick.     "I  won't  tell." 

Captain  Muffett  stared  very  hard  again  at  Nick. 

"There's  a  man  not  far  away  from  here  that 
would  give  his  soul  to  take  that  woman  by  the  hand 
and  go  down  on  his  knees  before  her.  Poor  fellow ! 
Poor  fellow!  He's  shipwrecked  his  life,  and  is 
struggling  in  the  icy  waters,  and  he  knows  that  The 
Mary  Lavenham  is  the  only  life-boat  within  reach 
of  him,  and  yet  he  daresn't  call  out  to  her,  lest  he 
should  drag  her  down  with  him.  Don't  you  call 
that  a  tragedy?" 

"The  Merman?"  asked  Nick  quietly.  He  knew 
it  was  the  Merman,  for  he  had  seen  the  wistfulness 
in  the  eyes  of  that  man  when  Miss  Lavenham  was 
within  sight.  He  had  seen  his  worshipping  look 
when  she  had  passed  close  to  him. 

"Ay !"  said  Captain  Muffett,  "it's  Edward  Framp- 
ton,  whom  we  call  the  Merman.  One  of  the  noblest 
[  229  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

men  that  ever  breathed,  except  when  the  devil  gets 
his  clutch  on  him." 

And  then  he  confided  to  Nick  that  Edward  Framp- 
ton  would  have  drunk  himself  to  death  long  ago,  if 
Mary  Lavenham  had  not  come  to  be  his  next  door 
neighbor.  She  had  discovered  his  secret  very 
quickly,  and  instead  of  being  frightened  and  horror 
struck  like  nine  women  out  of  ten,  she  had  been 
filled  with  a  great  pity,  and  a  good  courage.  She 
had  nursed  the  man  when  he  had  been  at  death's 
door,  and  she  had  pleaded  with  him  to  rise  above 
his  weakness,  and  she  had  struggled  with  him  when 
the  craving  had  got  its  grips  upon  him.  And  after 
the  madness  had  left  him,  she  had  helped  him  back 
to  self-respect,  by  showing  him  how  she  honored  all 
that  was  good  and  noble  in  him,  and  how  she  believed 
still  that  he  could  crush  the  beast  within  him.  After 
every  attack  she  still  put  hope  into  him  by  this 
loyalty  of  faith  in  his  power  to  resist,  if  only  he 
tried  with  all  his  will.  And  at  least  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  longer  periods  of  sanity  and  health 
for  the  man.  It  was  only  rarely  now  that  he  gave 
way  to  the  poison  that  was  in  his  blood. 

"If  Edward  Frampton*s  soul  is  saved  from  the 
fiery  furnace,"  said  Captain  Muffett,  taking  off  his 
cap,  as  though  he  were  in  church,  "it  is  Mary  Lav- 
enham who  will  get  God's  thanks,  and  be  numbered 
among  the  saints.     Amen." 

Then,  after  a  little  while,  he  whispered  again  to 
[230] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

Nick,  although  they  were  on  a  lonely  stretch  of 
sands  with  no  human  being  within  sound  of  his 
voice : 

"There's  one  thing  that  makes  me  afraid — afraid 
for  my  dear  and  noble  friend  Edward  Frampton." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Nick. 

The  old  man  hesitated. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell.  Perhaps  it  ain't 
fair  to  tell." 

But  after  this  expression  of  doubt,  he  blurted  out 
some  vague  and  incoherent  words. 

"It's  like  this,  sonny.  If  a  man  clings  to  a  life- 
belt to  save  him  from  drowning  in  cold  water,  it's 
a  fearful  thing  if  a  stout  swimmer  comes  along  and 
takes  away  that  one  support.  Then  the  poor  fel- 
low may  go  right  under,  losing  all  hope." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Nick. 

"I  speak  in  parables,  as  it  were,"  said  Captain 
Muffett,  who  had  been  reading  the  Scriptures  dili- 
gently of  late.  "Mary  Lavenham  is  the  life-belt,  and 
the  strong  swimmer  is  a  man  who  has  only  got  to 
stretch  out  his  hand  to  take  her.  She  is  ready  for 
him.  She  w^ill  not  resist  him,  because,  you  see, 
sonny,  on  this  here  tide  of  life  God  sends  His  life- 
belts to  them  that  swims  strongest.  Changing  the 
way  of  speech,  I  put  it  in  this  style.  Love  between 
a  man  and  a  woman  is  like  two  hearts  bobbing 
about  in  a  great  sea,  and  then  drawn  to  each  other 
by  a  strong  current,  which  is  God's  will.  The  heart 
[231] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

of  Mary  Lavenham  is  drifting  steadily  towards  the 
heart  of  a  man  who,  as  I  will  admit,  is  the  least 
unworthy  to  be  united  to  that  dear  soul." 

After  which  burst  of  strange  and  incoherent  elo- 
quence. Captain  Muffett  pulled  out  his  bandanna 
handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose  very  violently. 

''Who  is  the  man?"  asked  Nick.  But  again  he 
knew  the  answer  to  his  question,  though  the  Admiral 
had  spoken  in  riddles.  He  knew  that  it  was  his 
father  wno  had  CHily  got  to  stretch  out  his  hand 
to  take  Mary  Lavenham' s  heart,  and  that  knowledge 
made  him  afraid,  as  Captain  Muffett  was  afraid, 
though  for  a  different  reason.  He  was  afraid  be- 
cause he  believed  that  his  father  had  no  right  to 
any  heart  but  that  of  Beauty,  who  belonged  to  him, 
though  she  had  gone  away. 

Captain  Muffett  did  not  answer  his  question,  but 
with  the  simplicity  of  old  age,  made  a  mystery  about 
something  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  hide. 

The  knowledge  of  a  love  affair  between  his  father 
and  Miss  Lavenham,  a  knowledge  which  grew  with 
every  little  secret  sign  between  them,  with  many 
an  interchange  of  glances  which  Nick  had  overseen, 
and  with  certain  small  episodes  which  told  him  that 
his  father  had  that  feeling  of  strange  exhilaration 
and  mental  uplifting  which  had  startled  Nick  in  his 
own  being  when  Joan  had  come  to  Barhampton, 
made  him  suspicious  of  her  and  shy  of  her.  He 
wanted  to  hate  her.  There  were  times  when  he 
[232] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

believed  that  he  detested  her.  But  she  was  so  kind, 
so  patient  with  all  his  moods,  so  quick  to  understand 
him,  that  his  attempt  at  hatred  failed  utterly,  and 
he  was  almost  won  over  to  be  her  worshipper,  like 
Bristles  and  the  Merman  and  the  Admiral.  He 
could  not  escape  from  her  influence.  As  long  as  his 
life  would  last  he  would  be  in  her  debt  for  two  of 
the  best  gifts  of  life,  a  love  of  poetry  and  a  love 
of  art.  It  was  her  readings  of  Shelley  and  Keats 
which  first  taught  him  the  magic  of  word-music, 
and  revealed  to  him  the  high  peaks  of  mystical 
nature.  It  was  in  her  room,  on  winter  evenings, 
that  he  was  first  spellbound  by  the  divine  harmonies 
of  the  poets,  so  that  when  her  low,  thrilling  voice 
recited  their  lines  in  her  quiet  room,  where  two 
candles  shone  like  stars  in  the  surrounding  dusk,  it 
seemed  that  his  own  dreams  and  instincts,  and  faint 
images  of  beauty,  were  being  called  up  in  his  spirit, 
and  made  real  and  perfect;  as  when,  without  her 
book,  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  spoke  the  words  of 
Shelley's  "Sleep." 

O  magic  sleep !  O  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hushed  and  smooth!   O  unconfined 
Restraint!  imprisoned  liberty!  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
[233  1 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Of  silvery  enchantment!   Who,  unfurled 
Beneath  thy  dewy  wing  a  triple  hour, 
But  renovates  and  lives? 

There  was  a  hush  after  she  had  spoken  those  lines, 
and  then,  as  Nick  gave  unconsciously  a  low,  quiv- 
ering sigh,  she  put  her  hand  upon  him,  and  said : 

'It  is  good  to  understand  things  like  that.  You 
understand,  Nick,  because  you,  too,  have  the  poet's 
mind.  Beauty  comes  to  you  in  dreams  waking  and 
sleeping.    So  I  guess,  at  least." 

And  she  did  not  know  how  truly  she  had  guessed, 
not  knowing  that  Beauty  came  to  him  with  a 
woman's  face. 

It  was  Mary  Lavenham  who  first  lighted  the  little 
flame  in  his  heart  which  afterward  caught  him  up 
in  a  great  fire  of  enthusiasm.  It  was  when  she  gave 
him  his  first  lessons  in  drawing,  and  said  one  day: 

"Soon  you  will  be  teaching  me,  for  even  now  you 
get  something  into  your  work  which  I  strive  for 
but  cannot  reach.  You  understand  the  heart  of 
things,  the  secret,  living  character  of  things,  that 
to  most  people  seem  dead.  That  old  tree!  You 
have  got  its  tragic  loneliness,  standing  solitary  on 
the  riverside.  That  ruin  of  a  boat.  You  have  made 
me  pity  it,  because  it  is  rotting  to  death  on  the 
mud.  Those  bits  of  washing  on  the  line.  How 
grotesque  they  seem,  bellying  in  the  wind!  How 
do  you  see  the  human  character  of  things  like  that  ? 
.     .     .     Nick,  if  you  liked,  you  could  be  an  artist." 

[234] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

Those  words  were  a  crisis  in  his  life,  because  after 
all  his  gropings  in  the  dark  toward  a  definite  goal, 
they  were  like  a  flashlight,  revealing  the  straight 
path  to  his  supreme  ambition.  Yes !  he  would  be  an 
artist.  That  had  been  destined  even  from  those  days 
when,  as  a  baby  at  Battersea,  he  had  scribbled  his 
quaint  imaginations  on  paper,  trying  to  draw  the 
noise  of  the  ducks  and  the  scent  of  the  flowers,  and 
trying  to  put  on  paper  the  character  of  the  familiar 
objects  in  that  top-floor  flat,  which  spoke  to  him  in 
a  secret  language  which  he  understood — the  hassock 
with  two  ears,  the  wide-embracing  chair,  the  laugh- 
ing lions  on  the  sideboard,  the  kettle  on  the  kitchen 
fire,  the  teapot  with  the  broken  spout.  But  it  was 
Mary  Lavenham  who  revealed  his  destiny,  by  her 
words  of  praise,  and  by  her  never-failing  encourage- 
ment, even  when  his  pencil  failed  and  when  in  the 
passion  of  a  boy's  despair  he  flung  his  brushes  into 
the  sea — and  bought  another  set  next  day. 

She  was  his  mistress  of  art,  teaching  him  the  mys- 
teries of  perspective,  the  greater  mysteries  of  color, 
showing  by  her  own  example  how  to  hint  and  sug- 
gest, without  too  much  detail,  how  to  build  up  an 
effect  by  simple  lines,  how  to  see  the  essential  things, 
and  to  turn  a  blind  eye  to  the  unessential.  She 
taught  him  the  tricks  and  technique  of  her  own 
method,  but  scoffed  at  them  and  said,  "You  can  do 
much  better.  This  is  just  elementary  school  style. 
[235] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

You  must  put  yourself  into  your  work,  and  get 
away  from  all  this  old-maid  trumpery." 

Afterward  he  knew  that  she  spoke  the  truth  about 
her  own  work,  though  it  seemed  wonderful  to  him 
in  those  early  days  of  his  apprenticeship,  but  look- 
ing back  on  his  career  he  knows  even  now  that  the 
best  lessons  of  his  life  were  when  he  sat  drawing 
©r  painting  by  the  side  of  the  Lonely  l^dy,  getting 
inspiration  from  her  enthusiasm,  and  correcting  his 
faults  by  her  advice,  and  developing  a  steady  pur- 
pose and  ambition,  because  she  saw  great  virtues  in 
his  early  efforts. 

He  worked  hard  now,  getting  up  early  to  make 
a  sketch  of  the  sunrise  over  the  sand-dunes,  sketch- 
ing all  day  long  in  color,  or  pencil,  or  charcoal,  and 
even  in  his  sleep  painting  imaginary  pictures  with 
strange  effects  of  mist  and  light,  which  seemed  to 
him  next  morning  more  perfect  than  ever  he  could 
paint  in  his  waking  hours.  This  new  ambition,  this 
incessant  labor  for  a  real  purpose,  was  a  curious  re- 
lief to  him.  It  was  an  outlet  for  energies  becoming 
too  strong  for  the  dreamy  idleness  of  his  younger 
days,  and  it  gave  scope  to  the  restlessness  of  body 
and  spirit  which  had  made  him  fretful  and  uneasy, 
like  a  wild  animal  in  too  small  a  cage.  Now  he 
filled  his  sketch-books  with  an  attempt  to  express 
his  ideals  of  beauty,  and  his  imaginative  adventures. 
He  drew  grotesque  things,  quaint  characters,  fairy- 
tale creatures,  which  seemed  to  grow  beneath  his 
[236] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

pencil  without  the  dictation  of  his  mind,  and  imag- 
inary scenes,  with 

Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves. 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight   .    .    . 

and  in  the  evenings  it  was  drawing  now,  and  not 
reading,  which  filled  the  long,  dark  hours. 

But  though  Mary  Lavenham  was  his  mistress  in 
art,  it  was  Edward  Frampton,  whom  he  had  called 
the  Merman,  who  was  his  master  of  philosophy. 
Between  that  strange  man  and  young  Nicholas  Bar- 
ton there  was  a  romantic  friendship,  as  between 
Jonathan  and  David,  and  the  elder  man  leaned  upon 
the  boy.  It  seemed  as  though  he  saw  in  this  boy — 
himself,  at  the  same  age  as  Nick,  with  the  same 
imaginative  nature,  quick  temper,  and  restlessness, 
and  as  though  he  desired  that  Nick  should  gain  all 
the  things  which  he  himself  had  missed — honor, 
fame,  self-respect,  above  all,  self-control. 

It  was  upon  those  subjects  that  he  harped  con- 
tinually, though  roaming  in  a  wide  field  of  knowl- 
edge, for  his  examples  and  models,  and  he  held 
himself  up  as  a  horrible  instance  of  what  to  avoid. 

"I'm  a  failure,  Nick,  a  damned  waster,  a  broken 
derelict  cast  upon  the  shore.  Take  warning  from 
my  tragedy.  The  truth  is  that  I  was  spoiled  at  the 
beginning  of  things.  I  began  rich,  and  I  have  ended 
poor.  You  have  the  advantage  of  starting  right 
[237] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

at  the  bottom  rung  of  the  ladder.  All  the  fun  is 
in  climbing  up.  Now  /  have  been  climbing  down 
ever  since  I  left  Oxford  twenty-five  years  ago,  as  the 
son  of  a  rich  father,  with  the  world  at  my  feet." 

He  put  down  his  failure  to  the  lack  of  an  honest 
friend,  at  the  time  when  he  needed  one  most. 

"There  were  plenty  of  men  who  called  themselves 
my  friends,  but  they  only  sponged  on  me  when  I  had 
plenty  of  money  In  my  pockets,  and  flattered  me 
in  my  self-conceit,  and  preyed  upon  my  weak  good 
nature,  and  were  boon  companions  in  my  foolish 
hours. 

O  summer  friendship, 
Whose  flattering  leaves  that  shadowed  us  in 
Our  prosperity,  with  the  least  gust  drop  oif 
In  th*  autumn  of  adversity! 

Edward  Frampton  indulged  in  a  reverie  of  self- 
pity.  He  seemed  to  find  some  bitter-sweetness  in 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  failure,  and  a  strange 
satisfaction  in  scourging  himself  with  his  own  scorn. 

"I  was  a  fool  of  fools.  Because  I  was  popular, 
because  I  could  sing  a  good  song  and  make  an  after- 
dinner  speech,  and  because  I  was  born  with  a  straight 
nose  instead  of  a  crooked  one — a  handsome  fellow 
they  called  me  then,  Nick — I  believed  that  I  was 
destined  to  be  a  leader  of  men.  Perhaps  I  might 
have  been — who  knows?  But  whenever  I  had  a 
chance  of  leadership,  I  threw  it  away,  bcause  it  en- 

[238] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE   MAN 

tailed  hard  work  and  a  hard  Hfe,  and  I  shirked  work 
and  wanted  an  easy  hfe.  My  lad,  that  is  the  secret 
of  my  moral  shipwreck — taking  the  line  of  least  re- 
sistance. You  can't  win  your  way  to  any  high  place 
and  hold  it  unless  you  are  ready  to  eschew  delights 
and  live  laborious  days.  I  gave  up  a  career  in  the 
army  because  I  thought  it  was  infernal  drudgery. 
I  wandered  about  the  world,  as  a  coffee-planter,  as 
a  palm-oil  ruffian,  as  a  captain  of  South  African 
horse,  as  a  trooper  in  the  Bechuanaland  Border 
Police,  and  failed  every  time  I  got  a  chance.  Why  ? 
Because  I  shirked  hard  labor.  Now  look  at  me — a 
man  idling  his  life  away  in  futile  regrets,  subsidized 
by  rich  relations,  who  despise  him.'' 

Having  lingered  over  his  self-abasement,  piling 
up  denunciations  upon  his  own  head,  he  then  built 
up  a  picture  of  Nick's  rapid  advancement  to  fame 
and  honor. 

'*Nick,  dear  boy,  I  covet  honor  for  you,  as  though 
you  were  my  own  son.  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  to 
peg  out  until  you  have  gained  all  those  things  I 
missed.  Your  success  will  be  a  joy  to  me,  as  though 
I  had  a  share  in  the  making  of  it.  And,  indeed,  I 
think  I  may  claim  a  share,  for  in  these  long  talks 
we  have  had  together  I  have  pointed  out  the  perils 
of  life,  and  upheld  the  true  ideals,  and  helped  you 
to  play  the  game  as  it  should  be  played  by  any 
gentleman,  using  my  own  weakness  as  a  moral  tag. 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  makes  me  afraid  for 
[239] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

you.  There  is  only  one  creature  on  God's  earth 
that  can  spoil  your  chances." 

''What  is  that  ?"  asked  Nick,  startled  by  this  new 
hint  of  peril. 

"A  woman,"  said  Edward  Frampton  solemnly. 
And  after  a  little  while,  with  his  hand  on  Nick's 
shouider,  not  much  lower  than  his  own  now,  though 
he  was  a  tall  man,  he  explained  himself. 

"You  have  got  an  emotional  heart,  with  which 
a  woman  may  play  the  very  devil  if  she  once  gets 
her  fingers  to  work  at  your  heart  strings.  If  she 
is  one  of  the  cruel  kind,  she  may  spoil  all  your 
future.  Keep  away  from  women  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, Nick.  Keep  your  work,  at  least,  clear  from 
their  impertinent  intrusions.  For  Art  is  an  austere 
mistress,  and  is  jealous  of  all  rivals." 

Nick  was  silent,  and  pondered  over  these  words. 
They  were  reminiscent  of  similar  warnings  he  had 
had  from  Mary  Lavenham,  and  they  filled  him  with 
a  vague  alarm,  because  they  coincided  with  certain 
signs  that  his  father's  work  was  being  disturl^ed  by 
a  woman — who  was  Mary  Lavenham  herself.  For 
some  time  Bristles  had  been  restless  and  unable  to 
settle  to  a  new  novel.  Instead  of  writing  in  the 
mornings  he  went  out  for  lonely  walks,  and  did  not 
ask  Nick  to  join  him,  and  came  back  with  a  queer 
shining  light  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  had  seen  a 
happy  vision.  Nick  watched  him,  and  wondered, 
and  was  afraid,  because  he  knew  that  his  father  was 
[240] 


I 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

hiding  from  him  the  secret  of  a  love  which  could 
have  nothing  but  an  unhappy  ending,  because  in 
Nick's  philosophy  and  faith,  his  mother  still  claimed 
his  father's  loyalty. 

One  sentence,  just  a  few  words  in  length,  was 
an  epoch  in  his  life.  It  was  when  his  father  said 
very  quietly  one  day : 

"Nick,  old  man,  how  would  you  like  it  if  I  mar- 
ried again?" 

In  the  moment  that  followed  that  question  all 
the  secret,  hidden  things  in  the  heart  of  the  boy, 
all  the  vague  memories  of  his  childhood,  the  fairy- 
tale which  had  been  woven  like  a  golden  thread  in 
the  texture  of  his  life,  seemed  broken  by  a  great 
shock  of  emotion  which  swept  through  him  with  a 
cold,  rushing  wind.  Then,  after  the  moment  of 
dazed  surprise  and  pain,  he  was  possessed  with  a 
sudden  passionate  anger. 

"I  should  hate  It,"  he  said.     "I  should  loathe  it." 

He  jerked  out  the  words  in  a  half  strangled  voice, 
and  then,  without  looking  at  his  father,  who  was 
stricken  speechless  by  his  violent  protest,  seized  his 
cap  and  marched  out  of  the  cottage,  and  went  for 
a  long,  lonely  walk  on  the  cliffs,  in  the  buffets  of 
the  wind,  which  did  not  cool  the  rage  in  his  heart, 
until  at  last  his  emotion  was  spent  and  he  came 
home  again  with  a  whipped-dog  look.  During  the 
evening  meal  Bristles  and  he  sat  very  silent,  as 
though   an   Invisible  barrier  were   between   them. 

[241] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Once  or  twice  Bristles  looked  at  his  son,  furtively 
and  timidly,  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  him,  and 
once  or  twice  he  made  a  poor  attempt  at  conversa- 
tion about  Nick's  studies,  and  the  weather,  and  the 
health  of  the  old  Admiral,  who  was  laid  up  with 
the  gout,  but  after  a  *'Yes''  or  "No"  from  Nick, 
relapsed  into  a  gloomy  silence. 

It  was  only  when  the  supper  had  been  cleared 
away  by  Polly,  who  noticed  that  something  was 
"amiss"  between  the  father  and  son  whom  she  loved 
with  the  fidelity  of  a  house-dog,  that  Nick  broke 
the  spell  of  silence  by  an  abrupt  challenge. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  Beauty — about  my 
mother.     It's  time  I  knew."  - 

Bristles  had  been  waiting  for  that  question  for 
years.  He  knew  that  it  was  bound  to  come.  He 
knew  that  one  day  he  would  have  to  give  an  ac- 
count to  his  son  of  the  tragedy  which  had  made 
this  boy  motherless.  And  he  had  always  been  afraid 
of  that  day  when  the  tale  must  be  told,  because  it 
would  be  difficult  to  tell  it  truly,  to  apportion  the 
blame,  to  justify  himself,  to  explain  the  heartless- 
ness  of  a  woman  of  whom,  as  he  knew,  this  boy 
cherished  an  exquisite  memory.  Now  the  time  had 
come  when  Nick  must  know.  "It's  time  I  knew,"  he 
said,  and  Bristles  must  open  the  old  wound  that 
had  seemed  quite  healed. 

He  walked  to  the  mantelshelf,  and  filled  his  pipe, 
and  loaded  it  with  more  than  usual  care  to  give 
[242] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

himself  time  to  think  out  his  defence.  For  it  was 
clear  to  him  that  Nick  was  an  accuser,  and  that  he 
would  have  to  defend  himself  for  the  loss  of  the 
boy's  mother. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  ?"  he  said,  guardedly. 

"I  want  to  know  why  she  ran  away  from  you.** 

Bristles  lit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  out  a  long  coil 
of  smoke. 

"I  want  to  be  fair  to  your  mother,  Nick.  It  would 
be  easy  for  me  to  call  her  names,  to  dismiss  the 
whole  thing  by  calling  her  a  hussy,  and  a  bad 
woman     .     .     .     ** 

He  had  not  finished  his  sentence,  but  Nick's  face 
flushed  painfully,  and  he  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"But  you  would  not  believe  that,  and  you  would 
hate  me  for  abusing  a  woman  whom  you  remember 
as  Beauty,  the  well-beloved.  My  dear  old  man,  it 
is  not  easy  to  explain.  She  had  a  restless  nature, 
fond  of  gaiety  and  pleasure,  and  I  was  too  poor  to 
satisfy  all  her  desires  in  that  way." 

"But  that  wasn't  her  only  reason  for  running 
away,  was  it?" 

"The  only  reason  ?"  said  Bristles.  He  sucked  his 
pipe,  and  for  a  few  minutes  brooded  back  into  the 
past. 

"There  were  thousands  of  reasons.    Little  things, 

all  adding  up  to  a  big  sum  of  wretchedness.  From 

the  very  first  our  temperaments  clashed.    Although 

we  loved  each  other  in  the  beginning,  we  got  upon 

[243] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

each  other's  nerves  most  damnably.  We  were  al- 
ways quarrelHng  over  small  absurdities,  things  that 
didn't  matter  tuppence,  really,  but  which  seemed  to 
us,  at  the  time,  to  matter  enormously.  I  hated  to 
see  her  reading  foolish  novelettes.  She  disliked  my 
taste  in  ties,  my  style  of  collars,  said  that  I  was 
stamped  all  over  with  the  brand  of  the  City  clerk. 
Ridiculous  things  like  that,  leading  to  continual 
bickerings,  scornful  words,  sneers.  I  wanted  to 
mould  her  to  my  way  of  thinking,  and  she  would  not 
be  moulded.  She  tried  to  break  down  my  serious 
convictions,  laughed  at  my  sense  of  propriety,  ridi- 
culed my  conventionality.  I  hated  h?er  play-acting 
business.  It  made  me  rage  inwardly,  and  get  sullen 
and  sulky  with  her  when  she  exhibited  herself  on 
the  stage,  and  acted  love-scenes  with  impertinent 
young  fools,  and  let  herself  be  fondled  publicly  by 
coarse  and  elderly  actors  playing  the  lead  in  melo- 
drama. It  made  me  shiver.  It  seemed  to  me  an 
outrage  that  my  wife  should  be  handled  by  fellows 
of  loose  morals.  So  that  was  another  cause  of 
quarrel.  She  was  in  her  element  at  the  theatre. 
Her  mother  had  been  an  actress,  her  grandmother 
had  been  an  actress ;  the  profession  was  in  her  blood. 
She  could  not  understand  my  objections  to  stage 
life,  and  thought  I  must  be  a  morose,  narrow-minded 
Puritan.  In  a  way  I  was.  I  have  got  the  Puritanical 
strain  in  me,  but  that  is  the  fault  of  my  ancestors. 
Anyhow,  it  seemed  to  Beauty  that  I  disliked  to  see 
[244] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

her  gay,  that  I  was  most  gloomy  when  she  was 
most  high-spirited,  that  I  was  a  wet  blanket,  damp- 
ing all  her  joyousness.  You  see,  I  try  to  be  fair  to 
her." 

*1  don't  see  why  you  should  have  been  so  hard 
on  her!"  said  Nick. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  all  this  was  a  proof  that 
his  father  had  been  to  blame.  Everything  that 
Bristles  had  said  was  a  confession  of  Beauty's 
gaiety,  of  her  laughter-loving  spirit,  just  as  he  re- 
membered her. 

"Hard  on  her!" 

That  stung  the  man.  It  hurt  him  frightfully  that 
Nick  should  take  his  stand  by  the  side  of  the  woman 
who  had  abandoned  both  of  them,  and  against  the 
man  whom  she  had  cruelly  betrayed.  And  yet  he 
had  expected  that.  He  had  known  all  along  that 
the  time  would  come  when  Nick  would  be  against 
him,  because  a  son  always  takes  the  mother's  part. 

"She  was  hard  on  me,  Nick.  Beneath  all  her 
gaiety  there  was  the  hardness  of  an  utterly  selfish 
heart.  I  slaved  for  her  in  a  City  office,  but  do  you 
think  she  cared  because  I  was  wearing  myself  out 
so  that  I  might  get  promotion  for  her  sake?  Why, 
she  despised  me  for  it.  She  would  have  had  more 
respect  for  me  if  I  had  run  into  debt  and  played  a 
flash  game,  like  one  of  her  actor  fellows,  who  run  up 
bills  and  say,  'Damn  the  consequences.'  Because  I 
was  honest  she  thought  me  a  poor-spirited  drudge." 
[  245  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"But  she  was  earning  her  own  living,"  said  Nick. 
"She  paid  for  herself,  didn't  she?" 

"Yes,  she  paid  for  herself,"  said  Bristles  bitterly. 

He  rapped  his  pipe  sharply  against  the  mantel- 
shelf and  then  leaned  forward  and  said,  with  a  kind 
of  passion  in  his  voice: 

"I  would  rather  see  you  dead  than  married  to  a 
wife  who  pays  for  herself.  It  puts  a  man  into  a 
false  position.  It  robs  him  of  all  authority.  It 
gives  a  woman  an  independence  which  is  not  good 
for  her." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  said  Nick  stubbornly.  He 
could  not  follow  his  father's  reasoning  at  all.  He 
was  thinking  only  of  Beauty,  who  had  laughed  and 
danced  through  his  childhood.  His  father's  defence 
seemed  to  him  pitiful.  Surely  he  could  have  saved 
Beauty  from  running  away.  If  he  had  behaved 
properly  to  her  she  would  not  have  run  away.  "Why 
shouldn't  she  have  paid  for  herself?" 

"I  will  tell  you  why,"  said  Bristles  harshly.  "Be- 
cause when  she  wastes  her  money  on  foolish  and 
dangerous  things,  she  says,  'I  can  do  what  I  like 
with  my  own,  can't  I?'  And  when  her  husband 
remonstrates  with  her  for  piling  up  expenses  which 
are  beyond  both  their  incomes,  she  says,  *I  don't 
cost  you  a  halfpenny,  do  I  ?  Surely  you  don't  be- 
grudge me  some  little  luxuries  which  I  earn  by  hard 
work?'  That's  what  Beauty  used  to  say.  She  was 
so  independent  that  I  could  not  safeguard  her  from 

f246J 


d 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

the  dangers  of  independence.  She  would  go  gad- 
ding off  with  people  who  had  no  scruples  of  honor, 
no  care  for  my  good  name,  no  thought  for  my  ex- 
istence, and  because  she  could  say,  *I  pay,'  I  had 
no  check  upon  her.  But  she  didn't  pay.  In  the  long 
run  I  paid,  with  a  broken  life.  You  paid,  Nick,  my 
poor  motherless  son." 

"Perhaps  if  you  had  been  more  kind  with  her 
she  would  not  have  gone  gadding  off,"  said  Nick, 
in  a  hard  voice. 

Bristles  stared  at  him.  This  father  was  stricken 
because  out  of  his  past  a  ghost  had  come  to  claim 
his  son.  The  law  had  given  him  the  custody  of  the 
child,  but  Nature,  greater  than  the  law,  had  allowed 
the  memory  of  the  mother  to  wrest  Nick's  heart 
from  him,  and  poison  Nick's  mind  against  him. 
He  had  been  the  comrade  of  his  son  for  more  than 
ten  years  now,  since  his  wife  had  deserted  them. 
He  had  watched  over  him,  tended  him,  given  him 
all  that  was  best  in  his  heart  and  brain,  but  all  that 
counted  for  nothing  now,  and  the  woman  who  had 
abandoned  the  duties  of  her  motherhood,  who  had 
forsaken  the  child  of  her  flesh,  had  stretched  out  an 
unseen  hand  to  capture  the  boy.  Nick's  last  words 
whipped  him  into  a  sudden  anger,  not  against  Nick, 
but  against  this  cruelty. 

"My  kindness  to  her  was  thrown  away  on  a 
light-of-love.    The  woman  was  vile  to  the  core." 

Nick  rose  from  hjs  chair,  white  to  the  lips. 
[247] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"You  mustn^t  say  that,"  he  said,  staring  at  his 
father  with  burning  eyes. 

Bristles  was  reckless  now.  His  son  had  demanded 
the  truth,  and  he  must  learn  it. 

"She  was  eaten  up  with  vanity — a  colossal,  devil- 
ish vanity  which  destroyed  any  faint  touch  of  moral 
decency  which  may  have  been  in  her  nature  at  the 
beginning.  Any  scoundrel  who  pandered  to  her 
appetite  for  adulation  made  her  forget  her  honor 
as  a  wife.  That  man,  that  beast  with  whom  she 
went  away,  was  not  the  first  to  tempt  her  to  betray 
me,  not  the  first  to  succeed.  By  God,  I  was  patient 
with  her  and  forgiving !  God  knows  I  warned  her, 
and  pleaded  with  her,  and  pardoned  her,  until  her 
last  treachery.  She  walked  open-eyed  into  the 
spider's  web.  Nick,  my  boy,  your  mother  was  as 
false  as  hell." 

Nick  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He  was 
standing  very  straight  and  still,  with  that  white  face 
of  his  and  burning  eyes.  His  mouth  had  hardened. 
There  was  something  in  the  line  of  his  mouth,  some- 
thing about  his  eyes  which  reminded  Bristles  of 
Beauty  in  one  of  her  tempers,  when  she  lost  control 
of  herself,  and  said  bitter,  cruel  things,  which  stabbed 
him  like  daggers.  This  strange  likeness  to  the 
woman  who  had  been  his  wife  was  so  vivid,  so  start- 
ling at  that  moment  that  the  man  seemed  to  see  the 
woman's  spirit  suddenly  stare  at  him  through  the 
mask  of  the  boy's  face.     He  knew  that  the  words 

[248] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

trembling  up  to  the  boy's  lips  would  be  cruel  words. 
Before  they  were  spoken  he  shrank  from  them. 

"You  are  brutal,"  said  Nick,  through  his  clenched 
teeth.  "I  think  you  were  a  brute  to  Beauty,  and  I'm 
not  surprised  she  ran  away  from  you." 

Bristles  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  as  white  as 
Nick,  and  the  father  and  son  stood  facing  each  other, 
staring  into  each  other's  eyes,  breathing  jerkily.  It 
was  a  moment  of  enormous  tragedy.  Outside  the 
open  window  there  was  the  whisper  of  the  great 
sea,  as  its  calm  waves  ruffled  upon  the  moist  sands. 
Inside  the  room  the  clock  ticked  with  a  steady  beat, 
more  noisy  than  the  world  beyond  the  cottage.  The 
night  was  so  quiet,  the  silence  brooding  over  sea 
and  shore  was  so  intense,  that  the  open  window 
seemed  like  a  great  ear  listening  to  this  quarrel  be- 
tween the  man  and  boy,  and  the  moon  which  shone 
like  a  lantern  within  the  square  window  frame 
seemed  to  stare  curiously  at  the  two  human  beings 
whose  comradeship  had  been  smashed  by  a  woman's 
sin.  In  that  moment  when  the  father  faced  his  son, 
when  the  son  faced  his  father,  with  an  emotion  not 
less  passionate  because  it  was  of  a  deadly  quietude, 
each  knew  that  this  was  a  moral  earthquake  which 
had  shaken  the  foundations  upon  which,  until  now, 
they  seemed  to  have  stood  so  securely.  Each  knew 
that  a  gulf  had  opened  up  between  them  for  which, 
as  yet,  the  bridge  had  not  been  built.  It  seemed 
to  Nick  that  all  his  life  since  Beauty  had  gone  away 
[249] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

had  been  leading  up  to  this  crisis,  when  he  stood  as 
the  accuser  and  judge  of  the  man  from  whom  she 
had  fled.  His  waking  dreams  of  her,  the  fragrant 
memories  which  had  haunted  him,  his  yearnings, 
his  secret  tears,  his  unuttered  cries  of  childhood,  his 
passionate  regrets,  had  been  storing  up  facts  upon 
which  his  father  was  condemned.  Because  the  only 
facts  which  counted  w4th  him  were  those  witnesses 
in  his  own  heart  which  spoke  on  behalf  of  Beauty, 
and  pleaded  as  counsels  in  her  defence. 

It  seemed  like  an  hour  that  the  father  stood  fac- 
ing his  son.  It  was  just  the  time  in  which  the  heavy 
pendulum  of  the  grandfather's  clock  swung  from 
one  side  to  the  other.  Then  Bristles  spoke,  and  his 
voice  was  hollow  and  lifeless : 

"One  day  you  will  be  sorry  for  having  said  those 
words." 

That  was  all.  Then  he  moved  uncertainly  across 
the  room,  fumbled  with  the  matches  on  the  side- 
board, and  lit  a  candle.  It  was  early  for  bed,  but 
he  went  upstairs  into  his  bedroom  with  a  heavy 
tread.  It  was  the  first  time  in  Nick's  memory  that 
his  father  had  not  said  good-night. 

In  the  days  that  followed  neither  of  them  alluded 
by  any  word  to  that  conversation.  The  name  of 
Beauty  did  not  pass  their  lips.  The  emotion  that 
had  stirred  each  of  them  to  the  depths  seemed  for- 
gotten and  buried  beneath  new  interests.  Their  old 
relations  of  comradeship  seemed  re-established. 
[250] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

They  laughed  and  chatted,  discussed  plans  for  the 
future,  went  on  long,  lonely  walks,  when  Nick  spoke 
of  his  ambitions  with  apparent  candor,  and  received 
the  warm  encouragement  and  anxious  hopefulness  of 
the  man  who  had  been  his  counsellor  and  guide  from 
babyhood.  But  they  knew  that  neither  of  them 
would  ever  forget  the  words  spoken  in  the  silence 
of  the  world,  when  the  sea  lay  calm  outside  the  win- 
dow, and  that  a  gulf  was  between  them,  even  when 
they  walked  shoulder  by  shoulder  across  the  sand- 
dunes. 

It  was  Mary  Lavenham  who  had  the  deciding 
voice  in  the  councils  which  were  held  on  the  subject 
of  Nick's  career,  shared  by  Edward  Frampton,  Cap- 
tain Muffett,  and  Polly,  with  Bristles  in  the  back- 
ground, anxious,  balancing  the  pros  and  cons, 
hesitating  in  his  approval  of  any  definite  plan. 

Mary  Lavenham' s  first  expression  of  opinion 
had  been  uttered  in  her  forcible  way  when  she  had 
stood  behind  Nick's  shoulder  when  he  was  sitting 
down  by  the  estuary  doing  a  charcoal  sketch  of  some 
boats  lying  up  on  the  mud  and  of  some  sailors 
mending  their  nets. 

"Do  you  think  it  comes  all  right?"  said  Nick. 

"It  is  better  than  all  right,"  said  Miss  Lavenham. 
"It  is  so  good  that  it  is  a  crime  for  you  to  be  pot- 
tering away  here  when  you  ought  to  be  getting  the 
best  training  and  beginning  a  great  career.  I  have 
nothing  more  to  teach  you.  You  have  left  me  behind 
[251] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

months  ago.  The  Academy  Schools  are  the  place 
for  you,  Nick/' 

"Think  so  T'  said  Nick,  very  calmly,  although  his 
heart  gave  a  great  leap  at  her  words.  "Perhaps  I 
have  as  much  chance  of  getting  to  the  moon." 

"You  will  never  get  to  the  moon  if  you  look  no 
higher  than  the  earth,"  said  Miss  Lavenham.  "I 
want  you  to  look  as  high  as  the  stars  and  to  reach 
up  to  them.    You  can  do  that  if  you  like." 

"Unfortunately  I  am  the  son  of  a  poor  man,"  said 
Nick. 

"Rubbish !"  said  Miss  Lavenham.  "It's  only  pov- 
erty that  gets  the  gold  in  the  stars.  If  your  father 
were  a  rich  man  you  would  never  be  anything  but 
a  silly  amateur.  You've  got  to  be  an  artist,  Nick, 
which  means  a  man  who  lives  for  and  by  his  craft." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Nick.  "If  only  I  had  the  chance 
of  doing  it!" 

"You  have  a  man's  chance,"  said  Miss  Lavenham. 
"We  will  see  that  you  have  it." 

That  "we"  embraced  the  little  group  of  people 
who  had  constituted  themselves  into  a  committee  for 
the  honor  and  glory  of  Nicholas  Barton.  It  included 
Polly,  who,  when  this  idea  of  the  Academy  Schools 
had  become  a  fixed  idea,  discussed  separately  and 
collectively,  drew  Nicholas  aside  one  day,  and  said 
in  a  whisper: 

"Master  Nick,  I  have  got  a  little  bit  to  help  you 
[252] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

into  them  schools.  It  ain't  much,  dear  heart,  but 
you  know  my  love  goes  with  it." 

She  thrust  into  his  hand  an  old  leather  purse  which 
bulged  out  as  though  it  were  full  of  coins,  and  then 
to  hide  the  emotion  with  which  she  seemed  to  be 
struggling  she  seized  the  rolling  pin  with  which  she 
was  making  a  piece  of  pastry,  and  started  singing 
"Take  back  the  heart  that  thou  gavest,"  woefully 
out  of  tune. 

Nick  stared  at  the  purse  in  his  hand,  not  know- 
ing what  to  do  with  it. 

''What's  all  this,  Polly?  Do  you  think  I  want  to 
sponge  on  you  ?" 

Polly  gave  a  ferocious  dab  at  the  piece  of  pastry. 

"It's  my  savings,"  she  said,  "if  you  must  know, 
and  a  precious  k)t  of  good  they  are,  unless  they're 
put  to  a  better  use  than  I  can  make  of  'em!" 

"Good  Lord,  Polly!"  said  Nick.  "I  would  hang 
myself  before  I  took  your  hard-earned  money.  One 
of  these  days  you  will  want  it  for  yourself." 

"Want  it  for  what?"  asked  Polly,  rolling  the 
pastry  into  a  thin  strip.  "Surely  your  Pa  will  give 
me  a  decent  funeral  when  I  drop  down  dead  in  his 
service." 

She  pretended  to  get  angry,  and  spoke  with  a 
great  deal  of  indignation. 

"Surely  your  Pa  won't  throw  me  out  like  an  old 
shoe,  after  all  these  years,  after  looking  after  him 
[253] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

in  his  absent-mindedness,  and  him  as  helpless  as  a 
babe  unborn !" 

"Of  course  he  won't,  Polly.  What  a  ridiculous 
idea !"  said  Nick.  **As  if  we  could  ever  do  without 
you!" 

"Well,  then!"  said  Polly  triumphantly,  lifting  up 
the  piece  of  dough,  and  flinging  it  down  on  the  board 
again.  "As  long  as  I'm  drawing  my  wages  what 
more  do  I  want?  I  can't  eat  more  than  three  meals 
a  day,  can  I?  You  don't  want  me  to  take  a  jaunt 
over  to  Paris  and  indulge  in  an  orgy  of  wickedness, 
do  you?" 

"No,"  said  Nick,  laughing  at  the  preposterous 
idea.  "I  shouldn't  think  of  your  doing  such  a  thing. 
But  I  can't  take  your  money,  all  the  same,  Polly." 

Polly  left  her  pastry,  and  flung  her  floury  arms 
round  Nick. 

"Dear  poppet,  though  you're  too  old  to  be  called 
a  poppet,  but  always  will  be  to  me,  just  take  it 
toward  the  expenses  of  them  schools,  and  don't  say 
another  word  to  your  poor  old  nurse  that  would  let 
you  tread  over  her  body  if  it  would  be  any  good  to 
you.  Your  Pa  is  a  poor  man,  but  every  bit  of  them 
savings  have  come  out  of  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  so 
that  it's  only  giving  back  what's  his  and  yours." 

Nick  kissed  her,  as  he  used  to  in  his  baby  days, 
though  now  he  was  so  tall  that  he  looked  down  upon 
her. 

[254] 


I 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

"1  will  take  the  purse/*  he  said,  "but  only  as  a 
loan,  Polly." 

She  was  satisfied  with  that,  though  she  muttered 
something  about  "loan  be  hanged,"  and  she  resumed 
her  attack  upon  the  unfortunate  piece  of  dough  with 
renewed  energy  and  great  cheerfulness  of  spirits. 

Polly's  generosity  was  equaled,  though  not  sur- 
passed, except  in  money  values,  by  Nick's  other 
friends,  and  when  it  was  definitely  arranged  that  he 
should  go  to  London  to  attend  the  Academy  Schools, 
Miss  Lavenham,  Edward  Frampton  and  Captain 
Muffett  made  themselves  jointly  responsible  for  his 
fees,  his  father  agreeing  to  this  arrangement  because 
it  was  made  clear  to  him,  after  many  arguments,  that 
they  all  desired  a  share  in  Nick's  glory.  During 
those  last  days  in  the  cottage  by  the  sea,  when  he 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  young  manhood,  facing  at 
last  the  great  adventure  when  he  would  go  forth 
to  seek  his  fortune,  to  stand  alone,  to  put  himself 
to  the  test  of  life,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  a  sense 
of  thankfulness  for  these  good  friends  who  believed 
in  him,  more  than  he  believed  in  himself,  and  he 
realized  with  humility  and  self-abasement  how  often 
he  had  taken  their  favors  for  granted  and  behaved 
with  the  selfishness  and  arrogance  of  boyhood.  He 
did  not  understand  that  he  had  given  back  more 
than  he  received.  That  the  child  who  had  grown 
into  a  boy  and  the  boy  who  was  fast  growing  into 
a  man,  had  filled  up  a  gap  in  the  hearts  of  these 
[255] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

middle-aged  people  by  the  spirit  of  youth,  and  that 
his  companionship  had  kept  them  from  growing  old 
and  rusty  before  their  time.  To  Mary  Lavenham 
he  had  been  like  one  of  her  dream  children,  and 
she  had  mothered  him,  in  spite  of  his  shyness  of 
her.  To  Edward  Frampton  he  had  been  the  image 
of  his  own  unspoiled  youth,  and  a  young  knight 
with  untarnished  armor.  To  Captain  Muffett,  the 
old  *' Admiral,"  he  had  been  a  comrade  with  whom 
he  had  grown  young  again.  They  had  carved  out 
many  boats  together !  They  had  sailed  up  the  estu- 
ary on  many  breezy  days.  The  withered  old  heart 
of  a  man  who  had  known  tragedy  had  flowered  into 
a  second  childhood  when  Nick  came  to  ask  his  ques- 
tions. Nick  did  not  know  those  things  then.  He 
only  felt  fearful  lest  he  might  not  prove  himself 
worthy  of  their  faith  in  him.  And  on  the  last  night, 
when  they  assembled  in  his  father's  sitting-room, 
when  the  Admiral  made  a  prayer  over  a  bowl  of 
punch,  and  after  drinking  to  Nick's  health  and  to  his 
prosperous  voyage  on  a  fair  sea,  ended  with  an 
Amen,  and  wiped  his  eye  with  his  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief ;  when  Edward  Frampton,  not  touching  the 
punch,  made  a  fine  speech  in  which  he  quoted  many 
lines  from  the  poets  upon  honor  and  glory,  and  the 
splendor  of  youth;  when  Miss  Lavenham  sat  very 
still  and  quiet  until  her  turn  came  to  speak  and  she 
made  a  fairy-tale  of  Nick's  way  through  the  worlds 
of  art,  until  he  reached  the  high  peaks  of  eternal 

[256] 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN 

beauty  after  many  struggles,  many  failures,  many 
moments  of  despair;  and  lastly  when  Bristles  was 
left  alone  with  him,  and  kissed  him  before  the  last 
good-night  in  this  cottage  by  the  sea,  and  said,  "I 
shall  miss  you  horribly,  old  man.  I  must  join  you 
as  soon  as  possible,"  then  Nick's  heart  was  filled  to 
overflowing,  so  that  his  eyes  were  moist  with  tears, 
and  he  could  not  speak.  In  the  loneliness  of  his 
little  room  that  night  he  sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed 
until  the  candle  flickered  out,  and  even  then  he  sat 
in  the  darkness  thinking  of  the  boyhood  that  was 
passing  and  of  the  manhood  that  was  coming.  The 
thrill  of  the  great  adventure  had  already  stirred  him. 
Ambition,  the  colossal  ambition  of  youth,  quickened 
his  pulse,  and  the  thought  of  going  back  to  London, 
which  he  remembered  only  through  the  mists  of 
memory,  excited  him  like  a  powerful  drug.  For  in 
London  were  the  two  dream  faces  which  had  haunted 
his  imagination,  and  in  the  crowd  he  might  find 
them  again.  As  once  before,  when  he  lay  down  to 
sleep,  the  face  of  Beauty  and  the  face  of  Joan  came 
to  him  and  intermingled,  so  that  they  seemed  one 
face,  with  a  little  teasing  smile  about  the  lips. 


[257] 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  I 

NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

Quite  a  number  of  actors  and  playgoers  in  London 
became  familiar  with  the  face  of  a  young  man,  hardly 
more  than  a  boy,  who  was  often  to  be  seen  waiting 
in  the  queues  outside  the  galleries,  or  standing  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  stage  doors  with  an  eager 
and  searching  look  when  the  actresses  came  hurry- 
ing up  before  a  performance.  Suburban  girls  who 
were  devotees  of  popular  players  noticed  this  young 
man  partly  because  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  them. 
If  he  happened  to  be  standing  near  them  in  a  queue 
he  paid  no  attention  to  their  chatter,  and  did  not  turn 
his  head  when  they  giggled,  and  did  not  vouchsafe  a 
glance  at  their  prettiness,  but  stood  self-absorbed,  in- 
tensely introspective,  with  a  dreaminess  in  his  eyes. 
Now  and  again  one  of  these  girls  would  nudge  her 
companion,  and  whisper,  "There's  that  handsome 
boy  again !  Do  you  remember,  we  saw  him  at  the 
first  night  of  the  new  Gaiety  piece  ?" — or  when  they 
passed  him,  standing  a  little  aloof,  outside  a  stage 
door,  they  would  smile  at  each  other  and  say,  "He 
always  seems  looking  for  some  one.  I  expect  he's 
fallen  in  love  with  an  actress  girl's  face  on  a  picture 
post-card.  I  wish  I  had  her  luck !" 
[261] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

It  was  Nicholas  Barton,  who,  after  his  days  of 
study  at  the  Academy  Schools,  came,  like  a  moth  to 
the  candle,  to  every  new  play  produced  in  London. 
After  a  year  of  plays  many  of  them  bored  him  unut- 
terably. Often  he  would  sit  in  the  gallery  staring 
down  upon  some  new  musical  comedy,  or  some  new 
problem  play,  with  unseeing  eyes,  after  he  had 
scanned  the  faces  of  the  actresses,  without  finding 
the  face  of  his  desire,  through  a  pair  of  opera  glasses 
which  he  had  bought  by  economising  over  his  meals. 
For  a  time  the  glitter  and  glare  of  the  musical  come- 
dies had  been  wonderful  to  him,  as  all  this  new  life 
in  London  was  wonderful.  For  a  time  each  new 
problem  play  filled  him  with  new  perplexities,  opened 
his  eyes  to  new  tragedies  in  the  relations  between 
men  and  women,  and  stirred  up  uneasy  thoughts 
about  his  own  temperament  and  instincts.  But  the 
time  came  when  he  became  almost  as  blase  as  most 
regular  playgoers,  and  his  critical  faculties  wore  off 
the  sharp  edge  of  his  appetite  for  drama,  so  that  he 
was  no  longer  excited  by  a  dreary  piece  of  realism, 
nor  ravished  by  a  mere  display  of  plump  girls  in 
extravagant  frocks,  as  in  the  days  of  his  first  sim- 
plicity. Nevertheless  he  continued  to  go  to  the 
theatre  on  many  nights  when  he  was  not  hard  at 
work  in  the  little  studio  off  the  Fulham  Road  which 
he  shared  with  his  one  great  comrade,  Jack  Comyns 
— the  Honourable  John — or  when  he  had  not  yielded 
to  the  solicitations  of  that  recklessly  extravagant 
[262] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

fellow  to  dine  on  the  fleshpots  of  Soho  or  when  he 
was  not  wandering  on  long  lonely  walks  of  explora- 
tion in  and  about  London,  watching  the  human 
drama  of  the  streets  and  searching  into  life  with  that 
insatiable  curiosity  with  which  he  had  been  born. 
In  spite  of  Jack  Comyns,  art  student,  amourist  and 
pampered  darling  of  fate  (he  had  a  private  income 
of  £500  a  year  to  set  against  Nick's  allowance  of  £80 
provided  by  a  literary  father  who  earned  each  penny 
by  sweat  of  brow  and  scratching  of  pen),  he  liked 
his  loneliness  best,  when  his  brain  was  busy  with 
the  ambitions  of  his  art  and  when  he  walked  with 
dreams  even  in  places  of  most  sordid  realism.  He 
was  a  student  of  faces — the  faces  of  the  crowds  in 
the  great  world  of  London.  They  were  etched  into 
his  brain,  as  afterward  he  drew  them  in  his  note- 
book— tragic  faces,  branded  with  vice  and  despair, 
horrible  faces  like  living  gargoyles,  hideously  gro- 
tesque, twisted  with  the  torture  of  poverty,  with  the 
pains  of  hunger,  with  the  stamp  of  sin,  comic  faces, 
like  caricatures  of  humanity,  ape-like,  Puck-like, 
laughing  out  upon  their  gray  life  with  the  freakish 
humor  of  the  half-starved  Cockney,  noble  faces 
touched  with  sadness,  or  spiritualized  by  suffering, 
beautiful  faces,  of  women  unspoiled  by  luxury,  of 
patrician  women,  a  little  proud,  a  little  disdainful  of 
the  world  about  them,  conscious  of  their  breeding, 
pretty,  silly,  smirking  faces  of  girls  displaying  their 
vanity  to  the  passers-by,  and  faces  of  every  type  and 
[263] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

every  class,  which  to  Nicholas  Barton,  art-student, 
were  studies  of  life  to  be  remembered  for  his  note- 
books, so  that  Jack  Comyns,  his  comrade,  was 
amazed  at  his  industry,  and  startled  into  loud  ex- 
pressions of  admiration. 

It  was  not  easy  to  give  Jack  Comyns  the  slip  in 
order  to  go  to  the  theatre,  nor  easy  to  explain  his 
reason  for  going  to  plays  which,  as  he  had  to  con- 
fess, bored  him  exceedingly  after  the  first  orgy  of 
play-going.  He  had  not  the  pluck  to  tell  that  laugh- 
ing, satirical,  egotistical  fellow  who  chaffed  him  for 
his  sentiment  and  pelted  him  with  apples  from  the 
tree  of  knowledge  that  he  went  not  in  search  of  dra- 
matic emotion,  but  in  quest  of  a  mother  whose  face 
he  only  dimly  remembered  as  in  a  dream,  and  whose 
stage  name  he  had  utterly  forgotten,  since  he  had 
heard  it  once  at  Canterbury  on  a  day  which  he  would 
never  forget. 

''Write  and  ask  your  Governor"  would  have  been 
the  advice  of  the  Honourable  John,  who  always 
wrote  to  his  own  "governor"  when  he  had  over- 
drawn his  banking  account,  when  he  had  got  into 
some  new  scrape  with  a  harpy  in  petticoats,  and  when 
he  desired  a  little  advice  for  the  pleasure  of  neglect- 
ing it.  Nick  could  not  explain  to  him  that  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  he  could  do  was  to  write  for  his 
mother's  stage  name  from  a  father  who  desired 
nothing  more  than  to  forget  her.  But  this  igno- 
rance of  her  name  was  a  great  source  of  trouble  to 
[264] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

Nicholas  Barton,  for  the  playbills  did  not  help  him 
in  his  search,  and  it  was  only  by  holding  fast  to  his 
dim  memory  of  her  face  that  he  could  ever  hope  to 
find  her  among  all  the  women  who  came  on  to  the 
London  stage.  Even  that  dim  memory  betrayed 
him,  so  that  sometimes  his  heart  had  given  a  great 
thump  and  his  face  had  flushed,  and  he  was  thrilled 
with  a  great  excitement,  by  the  appearance  of  some 
actress  who,  for  a  moment  or  two,  convinced  him 
that  at  last  he  had  found  Beauty  again,  until  the 
imaginary  likeness  faded  out,  and  the  voice  betrayed 
itself,  and  he  knew  that  he  must  go  on  searching. 
There  came  a  time  indeed  when  he  was  forced  to  be- 
lieve that  his  mother  had  disappeared  forever,  and 
that  he  would  never  find  her  again,  for  never  once 
did  he  see  her  portrait  on  any  picture  post-card  or 
in  any  illustrated  paper,  and  he  was  familiar  now 
with  the  faces  of  most  of  the  actresses  in  the  London 
theatres.  Perhaps  she  had  given  up  the  stage,  so 
that  all  his  trouble  had  been  in  vain. 

That  was  a  blow  to  his  heart.  Upon  first  coming 
to  London  he  had  believed,  in  the  innocence  of  his 
youth,  that  he  would  meet  the  two  people  whom  he 
most  desired  to  meet.  Beauty  and  Joan,  face  to  face 
in  one  of  the  crowded  streets.  It  was  only  when  the 
vastness  of  London  had  frightened  him,  during  three 
miserable  months  in  a  cheap  lodging  house  in  Pim- 
lico,  to  which  he  had  first  gone,  before  his  comrade- 
ship with  Jack  Comyns,  that  he  gave  up  that  simple 

[265] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

idea.  And  it  was  after  screwing  up  his  courage  to 
the  sticking  point  and  calling  at  the  ground-floor 
flat  in  Battersea,  where  Joan  had  lived,  that  he  felt 
most  lonely  and  most  abandoned  in  the  great  soli- 
tude of  the  London  crowds.  For  Joan  no  longer 
lived  in  the  ground-floor  fiat,  and  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  young  woman  with  a  cigarette  in  her 
mouth  and  a  stylographic  pen  in  her  hand,  who  said 
that  the  Darracotts  had  gone  away  without  leaving 
their  address. 

She  volunteered  the  opinion  to  Nicholas  Barton, 
who  stood  irresolute  and  wistful  on  the  doorstep, 
that  one  of  the  great  blessings  of  life  in  London 
was  the  way  in  which  one  could  go  away  and  leave 
no  address. 

*lt  is  such  an  excellent  thing,"  she  said,  "to  cut 
and  run  from  one's  environment,  and  begin  a  new 
life  with  new  friends  who  are  not  prejudiced  by 
one's  horrible  past." 

Then  she  said: 

"Excuse  me,  I  am  just  killing  a  young  man  like 
yourself,  and  I  have  left  him  bleeding  oa  the  hearth- 
rug." 

Seeing  a  look  of  stupefaction  come  into  Nick's 
eyes,  she  laughed,  and  explained  that  it  was  the  end 
of  the  first  instalment  of  a  new  story  she  was  writ- 
ing for  a  half-penny  paper,  and  as  she  was  very 
behindhand  with  her  work  she  would  have  to  buck 
[  266  ] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

up.  Upon  which  statement  she  gave  Nick  a  cheer- 
ful "Good  afternoon"  and  shut  the  door. 

Nick  stood  irresolute  in  the  passage,  and  then 
climbed  up  the  stone  stairway  and  stood  outside  the 
door  of  the  top-floor  flat.  Behind  that  door  dwelt 
the  dream  of  his  childhood,  A  flood  of  memory- 
swept  back  to  him,  stirring  him  with  a  queer  emo- 
tion. He  remembered  the  day  when  he  had  left 
that  flat,  after  Polly  had  hammered  the  notice  on 
the  door  with  the  heel  of  her  shoe — that  slip  of  paper 
on  which  he  had  scrawled  the  words  "Beauty,  come 
back" — and  all  the  days  that  had  gone  before,  when, 
as  a  small  boy,  he  had  made  great  discoveries  of 
life,  and  played  strange  games  with  old  friends,  like 
the  hassock  with  two  ears,  and  had  lived  in  a  little 
world  of  dreams  with  Bristles  and  Beauty  and 
Polly.  How  different  it  all  was  now  that  he  came 
back  as  a  young  man!  This  stone  stairway  which 
had  seemed  to  his  childish  imagination  as  high  as 
heaven  itself,  was  but  five  flights  of  dirty  steps.  The 
flat  inside  that  door  must  be  a  tiny  place,  instead  of 
the  spacious  palace  which  had  haunted  his  memory. 

While  he  stood  brooding  there,  the  door  opened, 
and  a  nursemaid  came  out  with  a  chubby  boy  in  a 
jersey  and  knickerbockers. 

"Now  mind  the  steps,  Master  Dick!"  said  the 
nursemaid. 

"Fm  going  to,"  said  Master  Dick.  "I  want  to 
[267] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

count  them  as  I  go  down.    They're  always  different 
when  I  count  them  coming  up." 

Nick  remembered  his  difficulty  in  counting  these 
steps,  and  he  looked  at  the  small  boy  trotting  down 
as  though  he  was  the  ghost  of  his  own  small  boy- 
hood, and  before  the  nursemaid  shut  the  door,  he 
had  a  swift  glance  of  the  tiny  hall  which  had  been 
the  scene  of  many  an  exciting  drama  in  his  life.  The 
arrival  of  the  Rocking  Horse !  He  remembered  how 
Polly  had  unwrapped  it  in  the  hall,  how  Beauty 
had  come  out  of  the  bedroom  in  her  dressing-gown, 
to  know  the  cause  of  all  the  noise.     .     .     . 

The  nursemaid  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

*'Do  you  w^ant  any  one?"  she  asked. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Nick. 

He  walked  downstairs  again,  and  into  the  park, 
and  he  spent  a  whole  afternoon  groping  back  to  the 
memories  which  had  filled  this  place  with  ghosts — 
the  adventures  with  Joan  under  the  trees,  the  day 
when  he  had  plucked  out  a  handful  of  her  hair, 
the  day  in  which  he  had  threatened  to  scalp  her 
if  she  would  not  be  his  wife.  But  everything  had 
changed  and  shrunk.  Battersea  Park  was  no  longer 
a  vast  forest  with  fairy  walks  and  magic  waters. 
The  grass  was  burned  brown  and  littered  with  paper  • 
and  orange  peel.  But  the  old  owls  were  still  in  their 
cage,  or  successors  of  his  friendly  old  owls.  How 
frowsy  they  looked  as  they  blinked  in  the  sunlight !  i 
A  squirrel  was  still  hiding  in  its  cage.  He  saw  its 
[  268  ] 


1 


d 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

bright  eyes  peeping  out.  But  it  was  no  longer  an 
enchanted  creature.  All  the  fairies  had  left  the  park, 
and  he  could  not  find  the  old  hiding-places  of  mys- 
tery. There  was  a  faded,  dusty,  bedraggled  look 
about  the  place,  which  was  filled  with  ragged  urchins 
on  half  holiday,  and  his  illusions  of  childhood  were 
smashed.  Nicholas  Barton,  sentimentalist,  felt  like 
Rip  Van  Winkle  returning  home  from  his  long  so- 
journ in  the  Catskill  Mountains,  to  find  that  all  his 
old  playmates  were  dead  and  gone. 

Yet  even  now  their  ghosts  were  here.  It  was  the 
faint  perfume  that  came  from  a  bank  of  flowers 
which  revived  their  ghosts  in  Nick's  mind.  It  was 
the  sweet  scent  of  wallflowers  which  made  him  stop 
suddenly  and  stare  through  the  sunlight  with  a 
dreamy  look,  and  with  silly  tears  in  his  eyes.  For 
some  reason  which  he  could  not  analyze  the  subtle 
perfume  brought  back  Beauty's  face  to  him,  more 
vividly  than  he  had  ever  remembered  it.  He  saw 
her  laughing  eyes  and  teasing  smile.  He  saw  her 
in  the  blue  dress  and  in  the  hat  with  pink  roses, 
which  she  had  worn  one  day  when  Danvers  had  met 
them  by  the  duck-pond.  At  the  thought  of  Dan- 
vers, the  Beast,  as  he  had  called  him,  Nick  gave  a 
little  shudder,  as  though  an  obscene  spectre  had 
stared  at  him  through  the  sunlight,  and  he  walked 
back  to  the  studio  which  he  shared  with  Jack 
Comyns,  almost  regretting  that  he  had  revisited 
these  scenes  of  his  childhood. 
[26s  3 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Comyns  noticed  the  tell-tale  emotion  in  his  eyes, 
and  said: 

"Been  seeing  ghosts,  Sir  Nicholas  Bare-bones?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nick.    "Any  objection?" 

"Lots  of  objections,"  said  Comyns.  "You  live 
too  much  with  ghosts,  my  son.  You  should  follow 
my  noble  example,  and  go  in  for  human  nature.  It's 
much  more  healthy,  and  vastly  more  entertaining. 
Coming  to  that  dance  this  evening?  There  will  be 
some  pretty  bits  of  humanity  to  dally  with." 

"I'm  working,"  said  Nick. 

The  Honorable  John  Comyns,  who  was  lying  at 
full  stretch  on  a  chintz-covered  couch,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  on  a  velvet  cushion,  sent  one  of 
his  slippers  hurtling  at  Nick's  head,  by  a  well- 
directed  kick. 

"You  old  stick-in-the-mud!"  he  said.  "I  can't 
think  why  I  chose  you  for  my  stable  companion. 
You  are  a  standing  reproach  to  my  uneasy  con- 
science." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  clear  out,"  said  Nick.  "I 
can't  afford  to  pay  equal  shares,  and  you  go  in  for 
too  much  beastly  luxury.    Besides " 

"Besides  what?"  said  Jack  Comyns,  dangling  his 
other  slipper  on  the  end  of  his  toes. 

"We  are  utterly  unsulted  to  each  other.  You 
are  a  well-to-do  amateur,  playing  at  art,  and  I  am 
a  poverty-stricken  devil  who  must  work  for  a  liv- 
ing, or  die.  Look  at  my  clothes,  and  look  at  yours ! 
[270] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  me." 
"Great  Scott!"  said  Comyns,  addressing  his  speech 
to  the  ceiling.  'The  boy's  at  it  again!  As  if  I 
hadn't  explained  to  him  ad  nauseam,  that  my  col- 
ored socks  and  fancy  ties  are  the  nearest  approach 
to  art  I  shall  ever  get,  and  that  his  genius  gives  a 
shining  light  to  this  workshop  which  will  one  day 
cause  the  London  County  Council  to  send  down  a 
deputation  in  pot-hats  with  a  medallion  in  honor  of 
a  famous  man.  *Here  lived  Nicholas  Barton,  R.A. 
Also  John  Comyns,  his  unworthy  friend.'  The  boy 
has  got  a  swelled  head.  That's  what  it  is.  He  de- 
spises poor  old  Jack  Comyns.  He's  a  snob  of  the 
first  water." 

"Rot !"  said  Nick. 

"If  you  will  hand  me  one  of  those  cigarettes  I 
will  show  you  that  it  is  not  rot.  Thanks.  And  the 
matches,  if  you  don't  mind.  Good  fellow.  . 
A  snob,  I  said.  To  justify  that  accusation  I  must 
point  out  to  you  that  you  are  always  drawing  odious 
comparisons  between  my  allowance  and  yours,  be- 
tween my  wardrobe  and  yours,  and  between  my  rich, 
dishonest,  fat-minded  father,  and  your  poor,  honest, 
and  intellectual  papa.  You  fling  my  ridiculous  title 
of  Honorable  into  my  somewhat  good-looking  face, 
and  you  grouse  because  you  have  to  cut  the  fringe 
off  your  trousers  and  shave  your  shirt-cuffs.  If  that 
is  not  r,  revelation  of  your  inherent  snobbishness,  I 
shoukVlike  to  know  what  defence  you  have  to  offer?" 
[271] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Nicholas  had  n©  defence.  He  merely  murmured 
something  about  the  impossibility  of  going  to  a 
dance  looking  like  a  tramp. 

This  gave  Comyns  an  opportunity  for  a  further 
discourse. 

"My  dear  chap,"  he  said,  ''you  know  perfectly 
well  that  Chelsea  and  the  Fulham  Road  are  the  only 
places  in  London  where  the  more  a  man  looks  like 
a  tramp  the  better  he  is  liked.  It's  a  delightful  pose 
which  I  try  hard  to  cultivate,  but  with  poor  suc- 
cess. It's  my  beastly  money,  and  my  disgustingly 
luxurious  upbringing  which  prevent  me  from  being 
that  social  success  to  which  I  aspire  in  this  artistic 
quarter.  I  know  quite  a  lot  of  little  girls  living  on 
next  to  nothing  a  week  and  starving  stoically  while 
they  paint  pictures  which  nobody  will  buy,  who 
would  love  me  much  more  than  they  do  if  I  had 
holes  in  my  boots  and  if  I  had  to  ask  them  to  sew 
the  buttons  on  my  shirts.'* 

''I  can't  think  why  you  play  about  down  here," 
said  Nick.  "You  would  be  in  your  element  in 
Grosvenor  Square.** 

The  second  shoe  came  hurtling  at  Nick's  head, 
and  he  dodged  it  just  in  time. 

"Damn  your  impudence!"  said  Comyns.  "As  if 
I  hadn't  a  soul  above  Grosvenor  Square!  As  if  I 
don't  get  physically  ill  every  time  I  go  home  and 
see  my  poor  old  dad  getting  fatter  in  the  mind  every 
day,  surrounded  by  fat-minded  people,  wallowing  in 
[272] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

well-to-do  conventionality,  and  breathing  in  the 
stuffy  atmosphere  of  wealth,  sterilized  of  all  ideas. 
Thank  Heaven  I  have  broken  free  from  that  blight- 
ing influence  and  escaped  to  a  little  sanctuary  of 
art,  idealism,  and " 

"Utter  laziness"  said  Nick. 

'*Quite  so,"  said  Comyns,  settling  further  down 
on  the  sofa.  "That  noble  laziness  which  is  such  a 
contrast  to  the  vulgar  hustle  of  this  modern  world ; 
that  laziness  which  gives  a  man  time  to  cultivate 
his  soul,  to  ponder  over  the  beauties  of  the  Eternal 
Beauty,  to  dream  of  great  achievements  which — 
he  will  never  achieve." 

Nick  laughed,  as  he  always  laughed  when  Jack 
Comyns  rode  his  high  horse  and  indulged  in  long 
monologues  full  of  far-fetched  conceits  and  eloquent 
periods,  which  was  his  favorite  hobby.  He  would 
talk  for  hours  about  the  great  picture  he  proposed 
to  paint,  discuss  it  from  an  ethical,  aesthetic  and 
technical  point  of  view,  and  conjure  up  visions  of 
the  fame  and  glory  which  would  be  his  reward,  all 
with  such  exaggerated  language  that  it  was  quite 
obvious  that  he  did  not  take  himself  seriously,  even 
in  the  heat  of  his  enthusiasm.  Then,  after  half  a 
day's  work  he  would  throw  down  his  brushes,  utter 
a  number  of  violent  oaths  with  regard  to  the  failure 
of  his  first  attempt,  retire  behind  a  screen  for  an 
elaborate  ritual  of  washing,  and  emerge  spick  and 
span,  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in  preventing  his 
[273  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

other  friends  from  working.  In  the  Academy 
Schools  where  Nick  had  encountered  him,  he  re- 
ceived severe  rebukes,  or  satirical  comments,  from 
the  masters  for  his  slipshod  work  and  utter  careless- 
ness. Yet  they  said  that  he  had  a  quick  eye  and  put 
a  certain  character  and  dash  into  his  studies  which 
showed  that  he  might  do  better  things  if  he  took 
the  trouble.  Jack  Comyns  was  satisfied  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  might  do  better  things  if  he  took 
the  trouble,  but  he  postponed  the  day  of  trouble  with 
light-hearted  gaiety,  and  said,  "Manana"  like  a 
Spanish  Don.  There  was,  indeed,  a  strain  of  Latin 
blood  in  this  sprig  of  nobility  who  had  wandered 
away  from  his  class  to  mix  with  down-at-heel  ar- 
tists, untidy  girl  students,  free-and-easy  artists' 
models,  in  that  strange  district  whose  boundaries 
lie  between  the  King's  Road  and  the  Fulham  Road, 
and  where  hard  work  and  scanty  meals  are  accom- 
panied by  a  gaiety  of  spirits  which  takes  the  sting 
out  of  poverty  while  youth  lasts,  or  the  pretence  of 
youth.  He  had  extended  the  hand  of  friendship  to 
Nicholas  Barton  when  that  fellow-adventurer  in  art 
had  been  badly  in  need  of  friendship,  having  been 
chilled  by  the  loneliness  of  his  first  months  in  Lon- 
don, when  he  hardly  heard  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice.  Comyns  had  looked  over  his  shoulder  one 
day  in  the  life  class  and  said  in  his  enthusiastic  way, 
"By  Jove!  I  would  give  my  right  hand  to  draw 
like  that." 

[274] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

Nick  was  startled  and  embarrassed,  but  laughed 
at  the  queer  compliment. 

"Without  your  right  hand  you  couldn't  draw  at 
all." 

That  was  the  introduction  to  their  comradeship. 

"Look  here/'  said  Comyns,  "let's  have  lunch  to- 
gether.    I  hate  eating  alone,  don't  you?" 

Over  the  luncheon  table  Comyns  had  broken  tlie 
ice  of  Nick's  reserve,  by  rattling  on  in  his  egotistical 
way,  by  speaking  with  exaggerated  enthusiasm  of 
Nick's  sketch  book,  upon  which  he  had  seized,  with- 
out asking  permission,  and  by  plunging  into  a  dis- 
cussion on  the  ethical  purpose  of  art,  so  that  Nick 
could  not  follow  his  high-flown  arguments.  Nicho- 
las summed  up  this  new  acquaintance  as  an  egotist, 
a  poseur,  and  a  dandy,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  de- 
test him  very  thoroughly,  but,  as  the  weeks  passed, 
he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  the  egotism  of  the 
Honorable  Jack  Comyns  did  not  prevent  him  from 
being  very  generous  in  his  praise  of  other  men's 
work,  that  his  pose  was  a  harmless  one  which  did 
not  spoil  his  good-nature  and  sense  of  humor,  and 
that  his  dandified  appearance  did  not  make  him 
ashamed  of  walking  arm  in  arm  with  Nick,  who  was 
the  shabbiest  student  at  the  Schools.  Indeed,  to 
Nick's  astonishment,  he  was  singled  out  by  this  ele- 
gant young  man,  among  all  other  students  who  were 
eager  for  the  friendship  of  such  a  dashing  fellow, 
and  made  to  accept  many  small  favors  from  him, 

[275] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

which  he  could  not  hope  to  repay — ^luncheons  when 
he  would  have  checked  his  hunger  with  a  bun,  elab- 
orate little  dinners  in  Soho  restaurants,  when  he 
would  have  gone  home  to  a  lonely  lodging  for  very 
frugal  fare.  He  could  not  understand  why  Comyris 
desired  his  friendship,  for  he  was  as  ignorant  as  a 
child  of  the  great  life  in  which  that  young  man 
had  graduated,  and  he  had  none  of  the  conversa- 
tional brilliance  which  sparkled  on  the  lips  of  a  man 
who  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was  talking  on 
big  subjects  in  an  airy  way.  He  put  the  question 
bluntly  to  his  friend  when  the  idea  was  first  pro- 
posed that  Nick  should  share  his  studio,  at  a  small 
cost. 

"What  can  I  give  you  in  return?  I  am  a  dull 
dog,  as  you  know,  and  a  hard  worker.  I  can't  afiFord 
to  play  about." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Comyns,  "I  don't  want 
you  to  play  about.  Heaven  forbid  that  you  should 
play  about!  The  honest  truth  is  that  I  find  in  you 
qualities  of  character  which  I  have  never  struck 
before,  and  which  are  entirely  lacking  from  my  own 
degenerate  soul.  I  believe  we  should  get  on  fa- 
mously for  that  reason,  and  you  would  do  me  a  heap 
of  good — intellectually,  morally,  and  spiritually." 

"What  qualities?"  asked  Nick.  "I  am  not  con- 
scious of  them." 

"That's  your  great  gift,"  said  Comyns.  "You 
haven't  a  hap'orth  of  self-consciousness.  What 
[276] 


NICHOLAS   IN   LONDON 

qualities?  Well,  first  of  all,  an  idealism  which 
dwells  on  the  hill-tops,  secondly,  the  innocence  of  a 
mediaeval  saint  who  has  come  from  a  cloister  into 
a  naughty  world.  Thirdly,  a  romantic  temperament 
which  will  inevitably  lead  to  your  undoing,  unless 
you  have  a  cynic  at  your  elbow.  I  propose  to  be 
that  cynic,  though  without  spoiling  your  lofty  ideals 
and  beautiful  romanticism,  except  in  so  far  as  you 
must  be  hardened  against  the  rude  buffets  of  actual- 
ity and  safeguarded  against  the  lures  of  witch- 
women." 

At  first  Nicholas  believed  that  Comyns  really 
wanted  to  save  him  from  the  life  of  semi-starvation 
which  he  had  been  leading  since  his  arrival  in  Lon- 
don, and  that  underneath  all  his  friend's  insincerity 
and  carelessness  there  was  a  generous  strain  which 
made  him  choose  the  poorest,  shabbiest  fellow  in 
the  schools  to  "dig"  with  him.  For  this  reason  he 
shirked  the  idea,  and  refused  it  proudly.  He  did 
not  want  the  charity  of  Comyns,  nor  of  any  one  else, 
except  those  good  friends  at  Barhampton  who  had 
staked  their  faith  on  his  success.  But  when  he  be- 
gan to  realize  that  Comyns  was  prepared  to  make  a 
friend  of  him  on  terms  of  perfect  social  equality, 
his  guard  was  broken  down,  and  he  escaped  from 
the  lonely  squalor  of  his  lodgings  into  a  studio  of 
which  the  best  piece  of  fucniture  was  a  gay  com- 
panion. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Nicholas  Barton  knew 
[277] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

the  joy  of  true  comradeship.  Having  lived  mostly 
with  people  much  older  than  himself  it  was  a  new 
and  splendid  thing  to  have  a  friend  of  his  own  years, 
and  such  a  friend  as  Comyns,  who  was  utterly  can- 
did, infinitely  amusing,  and  unfailingly  good- 
natured.  It  was  true  that  he  had  many  exasperating 
qualities,  but  Nick  pardoned  them  all.  His  laziness 
was  so  incurable  that  he  would  often  stay  in  bed 
until  it  was  time  for  luncheon,  or  spend  the  morn- 
ing in  his  dressing-gown,  reading  French  novels  and 
smoking  cigarettes,  when  Nick  was  putting  in  a 
hard  morning's  work.  He  was  villainously  and  out- 
rageously untidy,  littering  the  studio  with  his  socks 
and  ties,  razors,  shirts  and  boots.  Though  profess- 
ing to  scorn  the  conventions  of  fashion,  his  own 
toilet  took  him  a  solid  hour,  and  was  the  result  of 
careful  cogitation  upon  the  state  of  the  weather,  and 
his  particular  mood.  Though  admiring  the  industry 
of  his  "stable  companion,"  he  did  his  best  to  make 
work  impossible  in  his  company,  by  singing  florid 
Italian  operas,  by  dancing  the  two-step,  and  over- 
turning the  furniture,  by  interviewing  the  char- 
women at  great  length  upon  the  state  of  their  souls 
and  the  conditions  of  their  home  life  ("I  am  a  great 
student  of  sociology"  was  his  excuse  to  Nick)  ;  by 
wasting  the  time  of  artists'  models  whose  services 
were  not  required,  and  lastly  and  interminably,  by 
discussing  human  life  from  every  possible  angle, 
and  literature  in  a  spirit  of  the  higher  criticism. 

[278] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

His  views  on  life  were  pagan  and  non-moral,  his 
views  on  literature  austere.  He  had  read  widely  in 
French  as  well  as  in  English,  and  could  quote 
Rabelais,  Villon,  Baudelaire  and  Montaigne,  with  as 
much  ease  as  he  could  recite  Shakespeare's  Sonnets, 
Swinburne's  lyrics,  and  Meredith's  prose.  There 
were  times  when  Nicholas  was  startled  with  the 
licentiousness  of  his  speech,  and  by  the  utter  cyni- 
cism with  which  he  spoke  of  women  in  the  abstract 
— not  like  a  young  man  of  twenty-two,  but  like  an 
old  and  embittered  man,  whose  life  had  been  wrecked 
by  a  woman's  cruelty.  Yet  watching  his  relations 
with  individual  women,  with  the  girl  students  whom 
he  invited  to  tea  on  Saturday  afternoons,  and  with 
the  artist  girls  to  whom  he  "stood  treat"  in  Soho 
restaurants,  Nicholas,  who  curled  up  into  his  own 
shell  on  these  occasions,  saw  nothing  in  his  behavior 
beyond  an  easy  gallantry  and  a  spirit  of  good  fun. 
To  Jack  Comyns  he  owed  great  bursts  of  laughter 
which  swept  the  megrims  out  of  his  brain,  long  talks 
in  which  everything  'twixt  Heaven  and  earth  was 
analyzed,  criticized,  ticked  off,  as  though  no  more 
could  ever  be  said  about  it,  long  walks,  beginning  late 
at  night  and  ending  with  the  dawn  which  crept  above 
the  house-tops,  in  which  all  conclusions  were  upset, 
and  all  subjects  thrashed  out  again.  Fantastic 
theories  were  upheld  doggedly  by  Comyns,  he  ad- 
vanced absurdities  with  the  gravity  of  a  philosopher, 
and  jeered  at  tragedy  itself  with  the  flippancy  of  a 
[  279  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

court  jester.  They  went  together  into  the  foulest 
slums  of  the  East  End,  and  stared  at  naked  poverty 
and  at  vice  without  disguise,  and  though  Comyns 
scoffed  even  at  this  human  misery,  and  pronounced 
harsh  verdicts  upon  its  victims,  there  were  many 
times  when  he  slipped  a  coin  into  the  hand  of  some 
poor  wretch  who  begged  of  him,  thus  contradicting 
his  own  views  on  the  need  of  brutality  and  the  law 
of  the  jungle. 

''Weakness!  Sheer  weakness!"  he  said,  when 
called  upon  for  his  defence  by  Nick.  'Intellectually 
I  am  a  despot,  at  the  heart  of  me  I  am  a  sloppy 
sentimentalist ;  and  I  have  no  strength  of  will.  But 
the  weakness  of  my  actions  does  not  disprove  the 
verity  of  my  opinions.  Now,  you,  my  dear  Nick, 
are  an  intellectual  sentimentalist,  which,  I  assure 
you,  is  a  very  false  and  fatal  thing." 

"I  decline  to  wear  a  label,"  said  Nick.  ''I  am 
merely  in  search  of  truth." 

"And  you  wear  rose-colored  spectacles  on  your 
journey.  My  dear  chap,  I  advise  you  to  look  at 
life  through  plain  glass  windows." 

So  they  "jawed,"  foolishly  often,  wisely  some- 
times, but  always  uplifted  with  the  joyous  arrogance 
of  youth,  and  drunk  with  the  wine  that  is  made  in 
youth's  first  vintage.  It  was  the  Honorable  John 
Comyns  who  kept  the  cooler  head. 

It  was  John  Com^yns  who  shook  his  cool  head  and 
wagged  a   forefinger  when  Nicholas  Barton   told 

[280] 


NICHOLAS  IN  LONDON 

him,  late  one  night,  the  story  of  his  boyhood,  of 
Beauty,  his  mother,  who  had  gone  away,  and  of  his 
father  who  had  thrust  her  out  of  his  Hfe  and  heart. 

He  ended  his  tale  abruptly  and  with  great  emo- 
tion. 

"Jack,  old  man,"  he  said,  "I  have  met  her  again, 
after  all  these  years.     I  found  her  to-day." 

It  was  then  that  John  Comyns  shook  his  cool  head 
and  wagged  his  forefinger. 

"My  lad,"  he  said,  "it's  the  worst  thing  possible. 
Mark  my  words,  you'll  be  devilish  sorry  for  it.  That 
father  of  yours  is  a  good  sort,  and  you  know  him 
to  the  bone.  But  your  lady  mother,  if  you  will 
forgive  my  saying  so,  is  a  most  uncertain  quantity. 
You  can't  tell  what  influence  she  will  have  upon 
you.  It  will  probably  be  thoroughly  bad.  I  know 
those  actresses.  I've  met  some  of  'em  .  .  .  You 
never  know  which  way  they  will  jump." 

For  the  first  time  since  their  friendship  began 
Nicholas  took  umbrage  with  the  candid  Comyns ;  on 
that  day  when  he  had  found  Beauty  again  he  was  in 
no  mood  for  cynicism.  He  was  overwhelmed  with 
an  emotion  that  broke  down  the  bulwarks  of  his 
young  manhood  and  made  a  child  of  him  again. 

Beauty  had  come  back  to  him ! 


[281] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

Nicholas  found  his  mother  in  the  Princess's  The- 
atre. He  was  sitting  in  the  front  row  of  the  pit, 
with  a  girl  on  one  side  of  him  who  was  eating  a 
prodigious  quantity  of  chocolates  before  the  rise  of 
the  curtain,  and  with  a  man  on  the  other  side  who 
was  reading  the  police  court  news  in  the  Daily  Tel- 
egraph. It  was  a  new  problem  play  by  the  celebrated 
dramatist,  Starling  Finch,  and  the  theatre  was 
crowded  with  the  intellectuals,  the  pit  especially  be- 
ing crammed  with  fluffy-haired  women  with  long 
necks  and  big  eyes,  and  sallow-faced  young  men  who 
had  come  in  a  spirit  of  earnest  criticism.  The  play 
opened  with  the  usual  dialogue  between  two  servants 
in  a  smart  household,  who  discussed  the  morality 
of  their  mistress  and  her  latest  carryings  on  with 
that  psychological  insight  which  seems  to  be  devel- 
oped below  stairs,  and  then  the  mistress  herself  en- 
tered with  the  announcement  that  she  was  not  at 
home  to  anybody  but  Mr.  Farquhar.  At  least  that 
was  her  line,  but  a  round  of  applause  which  greeted 
her  entrance  postponed  the  statement  until  silence 
had  been  restored.  Nicholas  turned  to  his  pro- 
gramme to  find  out  the  name  of  the  actress,  who 

[282] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

was  obviously  somebody  of  importance.  It  was  new 
to  him — Miss  Audrey  Vivian — and  he  saw  by  some 
words  between  brackets  that  she  had  just  returned 
from  her  "Triumphal  tour"  in  the  States.  Then, 
while  he  was  looking  at  his  programme,  she  spoke 
her  words,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  of  a 
peculiar  little  laugh  which  followed,  he  jerked  his 
head  up  and  listened  with  an  intense  desire  to  hear 
her  speak  again,  and  stared  at  the  woman's  face 
with  all  his  soul  in  his  eyes.  He  was  certain  that 
it  was  Beauty  long  before  the  end  of  the  first  act. 
Gradually  as  the  play  developed  he  found  himself 
remembering  all  sorts  of  characteristics  which  be- 
longed to  Beauty  and  were  now  revealed  by  this 
woman  on  the  stage,  who  could  be  none  other  than 
Beauty — ^the  poise  of  the  head,  a  curious  little  trick 
of  raising  herself  on  tip-toe  with  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  neck,  a  habit  of  sitting  down  abruptly 
and  then  Immediately  rising  from  the  chair  and  pac- 
ing up  and  down  in  a  restless  way,  a  quaint  man- 
nerism of  half  shutting  her  eyes  when  she  listened 
to  somebody  speaking,  and  then  opening  them  very 
wide  with  a  look  of  surprise.  All  these  things,  which 
he  had  forgotten,  were  suddenly  remembered,  as 
though  the  little  cupboards  in  his  brain  had  been  un- 
locked by  secret  keys.  But  above  all  it  was  her 
voice  which  made  him  sure  of  Beauty.  Every  time 
she  spoke  and  laughed  he  was  thrilled  by  the  sound 
which  seemed  to  call  back  to  his  childhood.    It  was 

[283] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  voice  which  had  haunted  him  in  his  dreams.  It 
was  the  voice  which  had  spoken  over  his  cradle,  and 
taught  him  the  meaning  of  words,  and  laughed  at 
the  first  jokes  of  his  life.  It  was  Beauty's  voice !  And 
presently  this  woman  on  the  stage,  who  was  acting 
the  part  of  a  gay-hearted  creature,  ignorant  as  yet 
of  the  tragedy  which  was  to  smash  her  in  the  sec- 
ond act,  sang  a  little  song  as  she  touched  the  notes 
of  the  piano.  It  was  just  a  line  or  two,  ending  sud- 
denly as  the  door  opened,  but  those  few  notes  were 
enough  to  stir  old  chords  in  Nick's  heart,  for  they 
belonged  to  a  song  which  Beauty  had  sung  to  him 
a  score  of  times  as  he  sat  on  the  magic  carpet  of 
Bagdad  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  top-floor  flat. 
He  remembered  the  words: 

Once  a  boy  a  wild  rose  spied 

In  the  hedge-row  growing. 
Fresh  in  all  her  youthful  pride, 
When  her  beauties  he  descried, 
Joy  in  his  heart  was  glowing. 

The  girl  who  had  been  eating  chocolates  industri- 
ously was  startled  by  seeing  the  young  man  at  her 
side  rise  in  his  seat,  and  after  groping  for  his  hat 
make  his  way  out  from  the  first  row  of  the  pit. 
Her  eyes  followed  him,  and  she  saw  how  pale  he 
was,  and  what  shining  eyes  he  had.  She  was  quite 
sure  that  he  had  been  taken  ill,  and  felt  angry  when 
several  people  in  the  back  rows  called  out,  "Sit 
[  -?4  ] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

down!"  It  was  before  the  end  of  the  first  act,  but 
Nicholas  Barton  did  not  return  to  see  the  second 
and  third  acts.  For  a  long  while  he  paced  about  the 
streets  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  theatre.  He  was 
too  excited  even  to  think  out  a  plan  of  action.  One 
thought  only  throbbed  through  his  brain,  the  thought 
that  after  all  those  years  Beauty  was  back  again, 
back  in  his  life.  He  returned  to  the  theatre  and 
made  his  way  round  to  the  stage  door,  deciding  to 
send  up  his  name  and  ask  to  see  her.  But  he  had 
to  walk  up  and  down  again,  with  his  hat  off,  so 
that  the  wind  blew  into  his  face,  before  he  could 
steady  himself  down  sufficiently  to  ask  the  man  in- 
side the  office  whether  he  could  see  Miss  Vivian 
between  the  acts. 

'Til  inquire.     .      .      .     Got  a  card?" 

"I'll  write  a  note." 

Nick  tore  out  a  leaf  from  his  sketch  book,  which 
he  had  taken  to  the  theatre  with  him,  and  wrote 
a  few  words  on  it. 

Dearest  Beauty: 

Will  you  see  me? 

Your  son,  Nick. 

He  was  kept  waiting  ten  minutes,  which  seemed 
as  long  as  ten  times  ten  minutes  to  a  young  man 
whose  emotion  had  made  him  feel  a  little  drunk, 
so  that  he  breathed  deeply  and  jerkily,  and  had  to 
moisten  his  lips  with  his  tongue  to  gain  some  self- 

[285] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

control.  For  he  knew  that  this  meeting  with  his 
mother,  if  she  consented  to  see  him,  would  be  a 
great  adventure,  and  that  his  life  would  not  be  the 
same  after  he  had  seen  her  as  before. 

Presently  the  man  poked  his  head  through  the 
swing  door  and  said: 

"Gentleman  to  see  Miss  Vivian?'* 

Nick  followed  him  along  a  narrow  passage  and 
up  a  long  flight  of  stone  steps,  until  he  tapped  at 
a  door,  and  said,  ''She's  inside." 

A  voice  called  out  "Come  in!"  and  Nick  opened 
the  door  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 
mother. 

She  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  with  her 
back  turned  to  a  large  mirror  on  a  little  table  where 
candles  were  burning.  Her  face  was  painted  and 
powdered,  and  her  eyes  pencilled  so  that  they  seemed 
very  big  and  lustrous,  and  she  wore  a  stage  frock 
of  black  net  over  crimson  silk,  cut  very  low  at  her 
bosom.  She  stood  quite  silent  for  a  moment,  star- 
ing at  Nick,  while  all  her  natural  color  faded  be- 
neath her  paint  so  that  she  was  quite  white  except 
where  her  cheeks  were  dabbed  with  red.  Nicholas 
stood  silent  also,  in  the  doorway,  gazing  at  the 
woman  hungrily,  as  though  his  eyes  w^ere  seeking 
for  the  mother  he  had  known  and  could  not  quite 
And  her.  Then  he  faltered  forward,  and  with  a 
queer  kind  of  sob  in  his  throat  said: 

"Beauty!" 

[286] 


I 


the;  unknown  mother 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  cold  hands  which 
he  seized  and  raised  to  his  lips. 

"Nick !    Good  heavens,  it  can't  be  my  little  Nick  !'* 

She  put  her  head  on  one  side,  glancing  up  at  him 
with  half-shut  eyes,  and  then,  with  her  hands  flut- 
tering up  to  her  throat,  gave  a  strange,  excited 
laugh. 

"I  can't  believe  it!  It's  impossible!  I  remembered 
my  little  Nick  as  a  tiny  boy.  Have  so  many  years 
gone  by?" 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you  all  this  time,"  said 
Nick. 

"How  many  years?"  asked  Beauty.  "It  seems 
only  the  other  day  since     .      .      .     " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  drooped  her 
head  a  little. 

"Fourteen  years,"  said  Nick.  • 

Beauty  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"Good  Lord!  I  mtist  be  an  old  woman,  and  I 
have  never  noticed  it." 

She  turned  round  to  the  table  and  seized  a  silver 
hand-mirror  and  looked  at  the  image  of  her  own 
face,  with  a  vague  smile  about  her  lips. 

"No,  I  can't  hide  the  crows'  feet.  I  can't  paint 
myself  young  again.  I  suppose  the  years  have 
marked  me  more  than  I  imagined.  Nick — do  I  look 
frightfully  old?" 

"You  look  as  young  as  when  I  saw  you  last," 
said  Nick.  Then  he  added  in  a  faltering  voice, 
[287] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Almost  as  young."  For  he  could  not  hide  from 
himself  that  this  was  not  quite  the  Beauty  of  his 
dreams.  Her  face  had  hardened  a  little.  It  had 
the  sharp  lines  of  a  woman  who  had  passed  through 
the  ordeal  of  suffering  and  was  not  quite  unscathed. 
He  wished  he  had  not  seen  her  for  the  first  time 
after  all  those  years  so  heavily  painted  and  thickly 
powdered.  It  made  her  look  a  little  coarse.  It 
dragged  down  the  ideal  of  her  beauty  which  he  had 
treasured  in  his  memory. 

*'You  should  not  have  added  that  'almost,'  "  said 
Beauty.  *'It  spoiled  a  very  pretty  compliment,  just 
as  it  had  bucked  me  up  no  end." 

Nick  wished  she  had  not  used  that  last  phrase. 
The  first  time  he  had  heard  it,  after  coming  to  town, 
was  on  the  lips  of  a  vulgar  little  artist's  model. 

"My  word!"  said  Beauty,  who  was  now  sitting 
down  on  a  sofa  fumbling  for  a  cigarette  from  a 
silver  case,  "you  are  a  tall  and  handsome  felk)w, 
Mr.  Nick!  If  you  weren't  my  son  I  should  be 
tempted  to  fall  in  love  with  you." 

"I  want  you  to,"  said  Nick. 

"I  shall  have  to  be  very  careful,"  said  Beauty. 
"I  can't  even  imagine  that  you're  my  son.  It's  the 
funniest  thing  in  the  world." 

She  laughed  in  a  hysterical  way,  and  then  puffed 
at  her  cigarette  once  or  twice,  before  flinging  it  away 
in  the  fireplace. 

"Why  funny,  mother?"  asked  Nick. 
[288] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  I  had  quite  forgotten  I  was 
a  mother.  I  had  wiped  it  right  out  of  mind  just  as 
one  cleans  a  slate.  And  now  you  come  back,  grown- 
up, and  I  find  myself  sitting  in  my  own  dressing- 
room  with  a  handsome  young  stranger  who  calls 
me  mother.  It's  an  impossible  situation.  I  can't 
act  up  to  it." 

Nick  was  silent.  He  was  dimly  conscious  of  a 
sense  of  pain  because  Beauty  had  wiped  out  the 
memory  of  him  during  all  those  years  when  he  had 
been  clinging  to  his  memory  of  her. 

'I'm  conscious  of  missing  my  part  most  fright- 
fully," said  Beauty.  **Here  you  are,  a  long-lost  son, 
and  here  am  I,  a  guilty  and  remorseful  mother. 
What  a  chance  for  emotion!  I  know  I  ought  to 
burst  into  tears,  and  clasp  you  to  my  breast  and 
say,  *0h,  my  de-arling  bo-oy !'  and  then  faint  grace- 
fully away.  But  I  can't!  I  can't  squeeze  out  one 
little  tear.  I  want  to  laugh.  I  can't  even  clasp  you 
to  my  breast,  because  it  would  be  like  embracing  a 
gentleman  visitor  whom  I  have  never  dropped  eyes 
on  before.  I  should  feel  horribly  embarrassed.  Do 
you  mind  if  I  laugh  again?" 

Whether  he  minded  or  not,  she  clasped  her  hands 
behind  her  head,  and  laughed  until  more  than  one 
little  tear  came  into  her  eyes,  so  that  she  had  to  un- 
clasp her  hands  and  mop  her  eyes  with  a  little  lace 
handkerchief. 

'*If  I  go  on  like  this  I  shall  have  to  make  up  again, 

[289') 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

which  would  be  a  horrid  bore.  As  it  is,  Mr.  Nick, 
you  have  put  me  off  my  part  aUog^ther.  I  must 
really  rebuke  you  for  calling  on  a  long-lost  mother 
between  the  acts  of  a  play  on  which  her  reputation 
is  staked.  In  another  two  minutes  I  have  got  to  pull 
myself  out  for  a  big  scene." 

The  words  sounded  flippant  and  callous  to  Nick, 
who  was  craving  for  motherly  sentiment,  who  was 
stirred  with  an  enormous  emotion,  who  at  the  sight 
of  this  woman  could  scarcely  keep  back  the  tears 
which  struggled  to  sweep  down  the  barriers  of  his 
self-control  and  to  shake  his  body  with  sobs.  Yet 
he  saw  that  beneath  Beauty's  attempts  at  light- 
hearted  fun,  she  too  was  stirred,  and  that  she  rattled 
on  like  this  to  hide  a  nervous  excitement,  and  that 
her  laughter  did  not  ring  quite  true,  and  that  the 
tears  which  she  had  mopped  from  her  eyes  were  not 
those  of  mere  mirth.  Indeed,  her  mood  changed 
suddenly  and  she  sprang  up  from  the  sofa  and  came 
swiftly  across  to  the  chair  where  he  sat  with  his 
hands  clasped  between  his  knees,  and  put  her  face 
against  his  cheek  for  a  moment. 

"I  know  you  think  I  am  a  foolish  stony-hearted 
creature !  You  see,  you  have  taken  me  by  surprise. 
I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  standing  on  my  head 
or  my  heels.  Give  me  a  kiss,  little,  big  Nick,  before 
I  go  on  to  the  stage  again." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  and  she  blushed  under 
her  powder  and  paint,  and  said: 
[290] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

"After  all,  it  will  be  fun  to  have  a  son.  It  is 
good  to  be  kissed  by  a  handsome  young  man,  with- 
out offending  the  proprieties.  .  .  .  Not  that  I 
care  a  little  hang  for  them." 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  Beauty  said, 
"It's  getting  near  my  cue.  I  must  go  as  quick  as 
Billy-o." 

She  darted  to  the  table,  and  powdered  her  face 
with  swift  dabs. 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  asked  Nick. 

"Not  to-night,"  said  Beauty.  "I'm  going  out  to 
supper  with — with  a  friend.  Come  to  lunch  with 
me  to-morrow  at  the  Hilarity  restaurant.  One 
o'clock,  sharp.  I  will  put  on  my  bestest  best  things 
for  you,  so  that  you  shall  see  Beauty  in  all  her 
glory." 

Standing  at  the  door,  she  put  her  hands  up  to  her 
lips  and  blew  a  kiss  at  him,  and  then  darted  out  of 
the  room. 

Nick  found  his  way  down  to  the  stage  door  again, 
and  went  out  of  the  theatre.  He  did  not  want  to 
see  the  third  act.  He  wanted  to  think  out  this  new 
situation,  to  find  out  its  bearings  upon  his  life,  to 
foresee  its  future  working  out.  One  thing  startled 
him,  as  in  the  old  days  he  had  been  startled  by  great 
discoveries.  He  did  not  know^  his  own  mother !  She 
was  a  perfect  stranger  to  him,  as  he  was  a  stranger 
to  her.  For  the  first  time  he  realized  that  his  knowl- 
edge of  this  woman  dated  back  to  the  time  when 
[291  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

fourteen  years  ago  she  had  sHpped  out  of  his  life, 
and  that  his  memory  of  her  had  not  been  the  memory 
of  a  real  woman,  but  the  memory  of  a  child's  ideal 
of  a  woman.  Now,  meeting  her,  in  his  young  man- 
hood, in  her  maturity,  the  dream  had  become  an  un- 
reality, and  he  had  found  himself  in  the  presence 
of  a  mother  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  except 
through  the  rose-mists  of  a  childish  imagination,  and 
by  the  bitter  words  of  the  husband  she  had  deserted. 
To  know  her  he  would  have  to  explore  her  nature 
as  though  he  had  just  been  born  afresh,  he  would 
have  to  find  out  her  kindness  or  unkindness,  every 
trait  of  her  character,  every  idea  and  opinion,  as 
though  he  had  just  been  ''introduced"  to  her.  Yet, 
because  she  was  his  mother,  he  yearned  toward  her, 
and  because  of  the  dream  he  had  cherished  he  was 
prepared  to  worship  her,  with  the  worshipful  heart 
of  youth  for  the  ideal  of  motherhood. 

One  thought,  however,  which  he  tried  to  thrust 
out  of  his  brain,  kept  stabbing  him  like  the  pain  of 
a  raw  nerve.  It  was  the  thought  of  Dan  vers — "the 
Beast" — the  man  with  whom  Beauty  had  gone  away 
fourteen  years  ago.  Was  she  still  living  with  him  ? 
He  shuddered — the  idea  of  meeting  that  man  with 
Beauty  as  his  wife  filled  him  with  a  sickening  sense 
of  horror.  He  would  want  to  get  his  hands  about 
the  man's  throat,  to  take  a  brutal  vengeance  for  all 
the  years  of  his  motherless  life,  to  finish  the  punish- 
ment which  Bristles  had  begun  on  that  day  of  drama 
[  292  ] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

in  Canterbury.  It  would  never  do  for  him  to  meet 
Danvers.  The  mere  remembrance  of  him  threat- 
ff'  ened  to  spoil  this  meeting  with  Beauty,  the  long- 
desired. 

It  haunted  him  even  when  he  sat  with  Beauty  in 
the  Hilarity  restaurant,  where  many  eyes  glanced 
over  at  this  laughing  woman  who  seemed  only  a 
few  years  older  than  the  young  man  who  sat  op- 
posite to  her,  listening  to  her  chatter.  One  question 
trembled  on  his  lips,  though  for  a  long  time  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  speak  it. 

"Where  is  that  man — Danvers?" 

But  Beauty  did  not  give  him  a  chance  to  ask 
that  question  over  the  luncheon  table.  She  had 
kept  him  waiting  for  his  meal  until  he  believed  she 
would  not  come  at  all,  and  when  she  came  suddenly, 
dashing  up  in  a  hansom  cab,  and  springing  down  to 
him  with  a  little  laugh,  he  hardly  knew  her  as  the 
same  woman  he  had  seen  the  night  before,  because 
the  powder  had  been  wiped  off  her  face,  and  the  thick 
paint  no  longer  raddled  her  cheeks,  though  she  had 
left  a  faint  touch  of  color  there,  and  in  a  light 
blue  frock,  with  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  on 
which  a  great  white  feather  lay  curled  like  a  sleeping 
bird,  this  mother  seemed  to  him  like  a  young  girl. 
She  was  almost  the  Beauty  of  his  dreams. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  like  a  girl  to  her  lover, 
and  during  the  meal  chatted  to  him  as  gaily  as 
though  no  tragedy  had  divided  them  for  years,  and 
[293] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

as  though  he  were  a  young  cavalier  paying  homage 
to  her  charms.  She  spoke  no  intimate  word,  no 
word  of  motherly  emotion,  she  made  no  allusion  to 
the  old  days  of  Nick's  childhood,  and  not  by  any 
sign  showed  that  she  gave  a  thought  to  the  father 
of  her  son.  She  gave  a  vivid  account  of  her  tour 
in  the  States,  with  a  comical  mimicry  of  American 
women,  with  an  exaggerated  caricature  of  American 
manners,  and  she  expressed  her  joy  at  being  in  old 
England  again,  where  she  had  not  been  forgotten. 

''I  can  afford  to  ask  big  fees  now !"  she  said,  with 
a  triumph  in  her  voice.  "1  made  a  pot  of  money 
in  America,  and  I  shall  skedaddle  back  again  if  busi- 
ness  is  slack  on  this  side." 

"Are  you  rich  ?"  asked  Nick. 

She  pursed  up  her  lips. 

''Rich  is  a  big  word.  I  can  do  myself  pretty  well> 
but  my  ambitions  are  much  bigger  than  my  means. 
They  always  were!" 

She  looked  across  at  Nick,  and  seemed  to  notice 
the  shabbiness  of  his  clothes  for  the  first  time. 

"You  don't  seem  very  flourishing.  What  are  you 
doing  with  yourself?" 

Nick  told  her  about  his  art  studies,  but  he  broke 
off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  for  Beauty  did  not 
seem  interested,  and  was  listening  with  only  half 
an  ear,  while  she  gazed  round  the  restaurant  and 
gave  a  smiling  greeting  to  a  Jewish-looking  man 
at  one  of  the  tables. 

[294] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

It  was  in  the  smoking  lounge  that  Nick  asked  the 
question  which  had  been  trembhng  on  his  lips.  He 
spoke  it  abruptly  and  awkwardly,  while  Beauty  was 
leaning  back  blowing  out  a  coil  of  smoke  and  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  half-closed  eyes  and  a  smile  on 
her  lips. 

"What  has  become  of — of  that  man — Danvers?" 

At  these  words  Beauty's  smile  faded  out,  and  her 
eyes  opened  suddenly  with  a  stare  of  surprise,  and 
the  cigarette  trembled  in  her  hand.  She  was  white 
to  the  lips. 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?"  she  asked  in 
a  queer  voice.  Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
she  said,  "Please  don't  mention  that  name  again,  or 
I  shall  quarrel  with  you.  It's  one  of  the  things  I 
have  forgotten." 

Nicholas  Barton  was  not  long  in  learning  that 
his  mother  had  a  wonderful  gift  which  enabled  her 
to  forget  the  things  which  she  did  not  wish  to  re- 
member. Indeed,  her  memory  did  not  seem  to  go 
back  much  further  than  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  yesterday  to  her  was  a  long  way  off. 

Nicholas  asked  Beauty  another  question  which  an- 
noyed her,  though  he  could  not  guess  why. 

"Are  you  living  alone  now?" 

Beauty  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  gave  a 
rather  harsh  laugh. 

"From  a  man  of  the  world  I  should  regard  that 
question  as  an  insult." 

[295] 


Nick  was  astounded,  and  seeing  the  look  of  pained 
surprise  in  his  eyes,  she  leaned  forward  and  thrust 
her  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  said  in  a  coaxing 
voice : 

''Little  Nick,  what  a  simple  boy  you  be!" 

She  added  also  that  he  was  a  pretty  boy,  and  she 
was  proud  of  him,  though  to  have  such  a  tall  son 
would  give  her  age  away  to  all  the  world. 

"Have  you  fallen  in  love  yet,  Nick?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  with  a  teasing  smile. 

Nick  blushed  uncomfortably,  and  said: 

"Not  yet." 

But  he  thought  of  Joan  Darracott,  whom  he  had 
lost  in  the  world. 

"Oh,  surely !"  said  Beauty.  "Why,  a  young  man 
of  your  age  ought  to  be  in  love  with  half  a  dozen 
nice  girls.  My  dear  boy,  your  education  has  been 
neglected." 

"I  have  my  work  to  do,"  said  Nick  very  gravely. 

Beauty  made  a  grimace. 

"Beastly  nuisance,  work.     How  I  loathe  it!" 

Then  she  leaned  forward  and  fondled  one  of 
Nick's  hands,  and  spoke  with  a  little  thrill  of  emo- 
tion in  her  voice. 

"I  haven't  done  much  for  you  as  a  mother,  Nick. 
Not  since  those  days  which  I  have  wiped  off  the 
slate.  But  now  I'll  make  amends.  Thank  the  Lord 
I've  made  a  bit  of  boodle,  and  I  am  going  to  give 
you  a  good  time.  You  and  I  will  have  lots  of  fun, 
[  296  ] 


1 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

Nick.     You  must  chuck  your  work  for  a  time  and 
play  about  with  me." 

Nick  drummed  a  tattoo  on  his  knees  with  nervous 
fingers. 

''I  want  to  see  as  much  of  you  as  I  can,  mothef, 
but  I  can't  give  up  my  work.  I  have  got  to  stick  to 
it.  You  see,  I  have  got  to  pay  back  the  people  who 
are  finding  the  money  for  me." 

He  had  told  her  already  about  the  Merman,  the 
Lonely  Lady  and  the  Admiral. 

*T11  pay  'em  back,"  said  Beauty.  "How  much? 
A  hundred  pounds?" 

"It  isn't  exactly  the  money,"  said  Nick.  "I  have 
got  to  pay  back  other  things,  their  belief  in  me,  and 
all  that.  I  have  a  chance  of  winning  the  Gold 
Medal — at  least  they  think  so  at  the  Schools — and 
if  I  slog  away  I  think  I  might  pull  it  off." 

"Oh,  hang  the  Gold  Medal!"  said  Beauty.  "I 
will  buy  you  one  for  your  watch  chain  to-morrow." 

Nicholas  laughed. 

"It  wouldn't  be  quite  the  same  thing,  would  it?" 

Beauty  pouted  at  her  son. 

"You  are  getting  tired  of  me  already." 

"I  shall  never  get  tired  of  you,'*  said  Nick,  "not 
if  I  live  for  a  hundred  years." 

"Well,  then,  you  must  play  with  me,"  said  Beauty. 
"Now  that  I've  got  a  good-looking  son  I  shall  make 
the  most  of  him.    I  am  greedy  for  you,  Nick." 
[297] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Thanks,  mother,"  said  Nick,  laughing  again.  "1 
have  been  hungry  for  you  all  my  life." 

She  fondled  his  hand  again,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  asked  a  question  about  the  man  who  had  been 
her  husband. 

"Is  your  father  still  alive?    Sulky  old  Bristles?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nick. 

"I  suppose  he  hates  me  like  poison." 

Nick  was  silent.  He  felt  horribly  embarrassed. 
A  sense  of  the  tremendous  tragedy  which  had  di- 
vided his  father  from  this  woman  overwhelmed  him. 

Beauty  did  not  press  her  inquiries.  She  gave  one 
of  her  queer  little  laughs,  and  said: 

"He  was  always  hard  on  me.  But  I  don't  blame 
him.    I  led  him  an  awful  dance." 

That  was  all  she  said  about  the  man  who  had 
been  her  husband.  She  gave  a  quick  gesture,  as 
though  wiping  him  from  the  slate,  and  then  com- 
manded Nick  to  accompany  her  to  the  nearest  tailor, 
so  that  she  might  not  be  ashamed  of  his  shabbiness. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "if  you  had  not  the 
face  of  an  artistic  archangel  you  would  look  like  a 
tramp  who  sleeps  in  his  clothes." 

She  was  reckless  in  her  orders  to  the  tailor,  and 
a  week  later  Nick  was  abashed  by  the  delivery  of 
a  parcel  at  the  studio  door  containing  three  suits  for 
morning  wear  and  an  evening  dress  suit  of  a  most 
elegant  cut.  He  was  abashed,  not  because  they  came 
as  a  surprise  to  him,  but  because  John  Comyns  gave 
I  298] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

a  howl  of  laughter,  and  after  a  few  words  of  amaze- 
ment, laughed  again,  until  the  tears  came  into  his 
eyes. 

*This  beats  everything  in  my  eventful  career," 
he  said,  when  he  had  recovered  his  composure. 
"That  Nicholas  Barton  should  exchange  his  old  blue 
serge  for  purple  and  fine  linen  is  more  than  a  joke. 
It's  a  ridiculous  miracle.  It's  a  monstrous  farce. 
It's  a  most  comic  and  grotesque  tragedy.  No  won- 
der I  have  to  mop  my  eyes !" 

"I  am  glad  it  gives  you  so  much  amusement," 
said  Nick,  trying  to  hide  his  embarrassment.  "But 
I  fail  to  see  why.  I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  dress 
decently,  as  far  as  my  means  allow." 

"That's  where  you  are  wrong,"  said  Comyns. 
"My  dear  old  man,  you  can't  be  a  genius  any  more 
if  you  wear  togs  like  that.  Those  are  the  sort  of 
clothes  I  should  wear,  and  other  brainless  fools  of 
my  style.  But  Nick  Barton,  who  is  out  to  win  the 
Gold  Medal,  young  Nick,  who  is  the  pride  of  the 
Fulham  Road,  must  be  threadbare  at  the  elbows  and 
wear  trousers  which  bag  at  the  knee  and  fray  at 
the  edges.  You  can't  serve  God  and  Mammon,  or 
Art  and  the  Haberdasher." 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  model's 

throne,  and  gazed  very  solemnly  at  Nicholas,  who 

proceeded  to  hang  up  his  clothes  on  various  vacant 

pegs,  with  an  air  of  callous  indifference  to  the  re- 

[299] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

marks  of  his  friend  and  the  glory  of  his  new  gar- 
ments. 

"li  you're  not  very  careful,  young  feller,"  said 
Comyns,  "you'll  be  getting  into  the  social  push,  and 
then  good-by  Art  and  good-by  glory.  With  them 
clothes  on  and  that  Don  Quixote-Sir  Galahad-John 
Halifax-Gentleman  look  of  yours,  you'll  be  invited 
to  afternoon  tea-parties  in  Mayfair,  and  little  din- 
ners at  the  Carlton.  Pretty  girls  with  the  brains  of 
bunny  rabbits  will  say  how  sweet  it  must  be  to  paint 
pictures,  and  how  shocking  it  must  be  to  know  so 
many  artists'  models,  and  then  you'll  let  your  hair 
grow  long  to  please  the  dear  creatures,  and  all  your 
manhood  will  be  emasculated  and  all  your  ideals 
vanish,  until  you  get  softening  of  the  brain.  By 
God,  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Nick,  and  one  of  my  illu- 
sions has  gone  smash." 

Nick  swore  a  mighty  oath. 

"I'll  hurl  something  at  your  head  if  you  talk  such 
rot,"  he  growled.  "I  am  going  to  work  harder  than 
ever,  but  that's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  take  an 
evening  off  now  and  again  and  dress  the  part." 

"Oh,  Nick,  Nick!"  said  Comyns,  "I'm  ashamed 
of  you.  I  loved  your  shabbiness  and  adored  your 
austerity  in  the  service  of  Art.  But,  if  you  are  going 
to  put  on  glad  clothes,  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't 
wear  a  made-up  tie!" 

In  spite  of  his  gloomy  prophecies  of  impending 
evil,  he  assisted  at  Nick's  toilet,  and  in  spite  of  that 
[300] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

young  man's  protests  cast  at  his  unwilling  feet  a 
brand-new  pair  of  patent  shoes,  flung  over  to  him 
a  spotless  white  shirt,  and  in  due  course  initiated  him 
into  the  awful  mysteries  of  tying  a  bow  in  the  way 
it  should  go." 

Then  he  stood  him  at  arm's  length  and  pro- 
nounced judgment. 

"H  you  only  knew  what  to  do  with  your  hands 
you  would  look  Hke  a  blood,  my  boy.  You  have  the 
air  of  an  aristocrat  descended  from  William  the 
Conqueror,  with  more  than  a  touch  of  Plantagenet. 
You  might  even  be  the  hero  of  a  musical  comedy. 
But  it  will  be  a  horrid  shock  to  the  Fulham  Road." 

It  was  a  horrid  shock  to  Nick  himself  when  he 
caught  a  full-length  sight  of  himself  in  a  glass  at  the 
hotel  near  Charing  Cross,  where  Beauty  had  a  suite 
of  rooms.  He  hardly  knew  himself  in  the  image  of 
a  dandified  fellow  with  a  waistline.  His  collar 
choked  him,  and  he  felt  foolish  about  the  feet,  and 
terribly  weak  about  the  knees,  when  he  made  his 
way  through  the  vestibule  where  young  ladies  in 
evening  dress  stared  at  him  as  he  passed.  But 
Beauty  gave  a  little  scream  of  delight  when  she  saw 
him,  and  dropped  a  very  low  curtsey  to  him  as 
though  he  were  a  Prince  of  the  Blood  Royal. 

"Dear  God!"  she  said,  "and  there  are  some  people 
who  say  that  clothes  do  not  make  the  man!  Nick, 
you  are  a  credit  to  your  country,  and  to  your  mother, 
too." 

t  301  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Then  she  whispered  to  him :  ^ 

"I  am  glad  you  look  so  smart  to-night.  I  am 
going  to  introduce  you  to  some  of  my  friends." 

"Oh,  Lord !"  said  Nick,  "I  thought  you  were  go- 
ing to  be  alone." 

He  was  panic-stricken. 

But  Beauty  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
lo  the  drawing-room  of  her  private  suite,  looking 
very  queenly  in  her  white  silk  gown  cut  square 
across  the  breast,  and  with  a  circlet  of  pearls  upon 
her  hair. 

She  stood  in  the  doorway,  hand  In  hand  with 
Nick,  who  saw,  through  a  kind  of  mist  before  his 
eyes,  half  a  dozen  men  and  women  in  evening 
clothes,  and  heard  them,  as  though  a  very  long  way 
off,  clapping  hands  at  the  reappearance  of  Beauty. 

Beauty  made  a  speech,  still  clasping  his  hand* 

"Dear  friends,  I  promised  you  a  surprise  to-night. 
I  told  you  that  I  would  show  you  all  a  great  treasure 
which  previously  I  have  hidden  from  you,  because  I 
feared  that  one  of  you  might  try  to  steal  it  from 
me.  But  now,  lest  I  should  be  guilty  of  too  much 
selfishness,  I  produce  this  treasure,  begging  the 
pretty  ladies  here  to  refrain  from  covetousness,  and 
from  the  game  of  greedy-grab.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, I  present  to  you  my  son,  Nicholas,  student  of 
art,  and  most  perfect  gentle  knight." 

These  words,  spoken  as  though  they  were 
Shakespearian  verse,  in  a  silvery  cadence,  were 
[302] 


I 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

greeted  with  laughter,  applause,  and  cries  of  in- 
credulity. 

''Extremely  well  spoken,"  said  a  man's  voice. 
"But  though  the  words  were  charming  you  don't  ex- 
pect us  to  believe  them?" 

Nicholas,  who  had  recovered  his  composure  after 
the  first  deep  flush  which  had  been  a  signal  of  dis- 
tress, saw  that  these  words  had  been  spoken  by  the 
Jewish-looking  man  to  whom  Beauty  had  smiled 
across  the  Hilarity  restaurant. 

''I  do  not  expect  any  one  to  believe  the  truth," 
said  Beauty.    "It  is  only  lies  which  are  convincing." 

"Gk)od  epigram !"  said  another  voice.  "Oh,  devil- 
ish good,  Miss  Vivian.  You  got  that  from  a  play, 
I'll  bet!" 

This  was  spoken  by  a  man  with  a  rather  flabby 
face  like  a  baby  of  mature  growth.  He  wore  a  mon- 
ocle from  which  was  suspended  a  broad  black  ribbon. 

"A  poor  thing.  Lord  Burpham,  but  mine  own," 
said  Beauty. 

A  girl  came  over  with  a  swish  of  skirts  to  Beauty 
and  Nicholas  Barton.  She  was  a  girl  of  about  twen- 
ty-two, and  Nicholas  was  astonished  when  her 
mother  introduced  her  as  Lady  Burpham.  She 
seemed  far  too  young  to  be  the  wife  of  that  baby- 
faced  man  with  the  monocle,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
pink  flabbiness  had  crows'  feet  about  his  eyes. 

"Here's  a  pretty  boy,  now  what  shall  we  do  with 
this  pretty  bov?"  said  the  girl,  taking  Nick's  hand 

[303] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

and  holding  it  so  that  he  became  seriously  embar- 
rassed. 

"Be  kind  to  him,"  said  Beauty,  "and  remember 
his  youthful  innocence." 

"Kitty's  youthful  innocence  would  pervert  the 
morals  of  an  anchorite,"  said  Lord  Burpham. 

"As  the  wife  of  Baby  Burpham,"  said  the  girl, 
very  calmly,  "my  innocence  is  in  the  Lost  Property 
Office." 

There  was  general  laughter  at  this  confession,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  the  Jewish-looking  man,  who  Nich- 
olas learned  was  Amos  Rosenbaum,  a  theatrical 
manager  in  a  large  way  of  business,  made  the  quiet 
observation  that  innocence  was  a  much  over-rated 
virtue  and  not  worth  a  row  of  beans. 

It  was  an  evening — the  first  of  many  such  eve- 
nings— which  provided  Nicholas  with  new  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  but  with  no  real  enjoyment.  Al- 
ways he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the  social 
atmosphere  of  his  mother's  rooms  was  not  good  for 
his  health  of  mind,  and  as  a  listener  and  a  looker-on 
he  heard  and  saw  things  which  made  him  wince, 
which  made  him  hate  some  of  those  people  whom 
Beauty  called  her  friends.  They  were  very  free  in 
their  speech  and  manners,  and  one  of  the  women 
used  swear  words  with  an  easy  familiarity  which  as- 
tounded Nicholas,  who  had  kept  his  lips  clean.  Kitty 
Burpham  made  a  habit  of  it.  This  elegant  girl,  with 
hair  like  fine-spun  gold,  and  with  big  blue  eyes  which 
[  304  ] 


THE   UNKNOWN    MOTHER 

had  a  flower-like  beauty,  used  oaths  which  would 
have  called  for  rebuke  in  a  cabman's  shelter.  When 
Nicholas  ventured  one  day  to  remonstrate  with  her, 
she  laughed  in  his  face,  and  said,  with  the  utmost 
good-nature : 

"Oh,  bli'my,  I  can't  change  my  vocabulary  at  my 
time  of  life.  You  must  pitch  into  my  baby-faced 
husband,  who  taught  me  his  stable  lingo  before  I 
had  been  married  a  week  to  him." 

"I  should  try  to  get  out  of  the  habit  if  I  were 
you,"  said  Nick. 

Kitty  Burpham  made  a  grimace  at  him. 

**Oh,  you  would,  would  you,  Mr,  Prig-too-Good- 
to-Live?" 

It  was  with  this  girl,  who  had  the  temper  of  a 
tiger-cat  at  times,  and  the  abandon  of  a  French  co- 
quette, that  Nicholas  found  himself  most  at  ease 
when  he  went  to  his  mother's  rooms,  because,  in  spite 
of  her  desire  to  embarrass  him  by  saying  risky 
things,  and  to  shame  him  by  ''taking  him  down  a 
peg"  as  she  called  it,  she  had  comradely  ways  also, 
and  would  often  throw  down  her  cards  at  the  table 
where  Beauty  and  her  guests  were  playing,  and  say : 

''This  is  bally  rot,  and  I've  lost  quite  enough  for 
one  night.  I'm  going  to  keep  company  with  Sir 
Nicholas  of  the  lily-white  soul." 

Then  she  would  lead  him  by  the  hand  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  where  the  piano  stood,  and  play  queer 
httle  tunes  to  him,  and  sing  queer  little  songs  to  him 
[  ?^^  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

in  a  French  argot  which  it  was  well  that  he  could 
not  understand.  And  between  the  tunes  and  the 
songs  she  would  smile  into  Nick's  face,  and  make 
outrageous  remarks  about  the  company  present  in 
a  voice  too  low  for  them  to  hear. 

Nicholas  remembers  some  of  these  flashes  of  char- 
acter study  which  made  him  shiver. 

"Amos  Rosenbaum  has  the  brain  of  a  vulture,  the 
heart  of  a  tiger,  and  the  tongue  of  a  snake.  He  is 
a  beast  of  prey,  and  mesmerises  his  women  before 
he  devours  them.  He  is  trying  to  put  his  coils  round 
your  lady  mother.  Look  how  he  smiles  at  her. 
Did  you  ever  see  such  a  Satanic  smile?"     . 

"That  chubby-faced  husband  of  mine! 
A  pretty  boy,  isn't  he  ?  .  .  .  He's  a  satyr.  He 
has  cloven  hoofs  inside  those  patent  leather  shoes 
of  his.  When  I  married  him  I  thought  him  such 
a  dear,  comical  thing.  He  seemed  such  a  kind- 
hearted,  brainless  dear.  I  didn't  know  that  he  was 
a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing.  Funny  thing!  We  still 
live  together,  though  we  hate  each  other  like  devils. 
I  suppose  it's  so  difficult  to  break  a  habit.  Your  lady 
mother  likes  him.  He  amuses  her,  and  I  will  say 
she  has  a  sense  of  humor.  There's  no  love  lost  be- 
tween him  and  Rosenbaum,  and  I  think  your  pretty 
mother  is  the  cause  of  it.  Oh,  there's  a  lot  of  drama 
in  real  life." 

"Lady  Burpham,"  said  Nicholas,  very  sternly,  "I 
must  ask  you  to  leave  my  mother's  name  out  of  your 

[306] 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

conversation.     Otherwise  I  shall  never  speak  to  you 
again." 

"Tut,  tut !"  said  Lady  Burpham.  "Don't  put  on 
your  curate  airs  with  me,  little  boy.  If  you  don't  like 
my  sprightly  monologues,  you  can  run  away  and 
play  with  your  Sunday  school  friends.     See?" 

Nicholas  did  not  see,  for  he  was  staring  across  at 
his  mother,  who  was  playing  with  Burpham  as  her 
partner  and  Rosenbaum  as  her  opponent.  Beauty's 
face  was  flushed.  For  an  hour  or  more  she  had  not 
given  a  glance  at  Nick.  She  was  losing  money 
heavily,  and  every  time  she  lost  Rosenbaum  smiled 
in  his  peculiar  snake-like  way. 

"These  cards  have  got  the  Devil  in  them!"  cried 
Beauty.  "I  never  saw  such  an  infernal  run  of 
luck." 

Burpham  was  glum. 

"Rosenbaum  plays  a  devilish  sharp  game,"  he 
said.  "The  kind  of  game  they  play  in  the  Ghetto 
among  the  cut-throat  Jews  of  Europe." 

Rosenbaum  cut  to  partners. 

"My  dear  Burpham,"  he  said,  "when  I  lose  I  pay, 
which  is  more  than  some  men  do,  although  they 
went  to  Eton  and  Oxford,  and  boast  of  Plantagenet 
blood." 

"Meaning  me?"  asked  Burpham.  "If  so  I  will 
put  my  fist  in  your  face  and  spoil  that  Jewish  nose 
of  yours." 

"Your  deal,"  said  Rosenbaum  calmly. 
[  307  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

*'Buck  up,  Burpham,"  said  Beauty.  "Don't  be 
bad-tempered,  dear  boy."' 

Nicholas  was  sickened.  Why  did  Beauty  tolerate 
those  poisonous  men?  How  could  she  laugh  and 
chatter  in  that  company?  What  pleasure  could  she 
find  in  their  conversation  ?  There  were  times  when 
she  forgot  the  very  existence  of  Nicholas  himself, 
and  when  his  presence  seemed  a  nuisance  to  her. 
When  he  went  away  from  her  rooms,  overheated  in 
the  warmth  of  them,  feverish  and  stifling  so  that 
he  took  off  his  hat  to  let  the  fresh  air  play  about 
his  forehead  and  drank  in  great  draughts  of  it — 
he  sometimes  vowed  that  he  would  not  go  back  into 
that  atmosphere  and  that  he  would  meet  Beauty  only 
when  she  was  alone,  without  those  hangers-on  who 
flattered  her  and  called  her  by  her  Christian  name,, 
and  had  the  insolence  to  kiss  her  hands — as  Rosen- 
baum  had  kissed  her  hands  one  night  when  he  left 
her  rooms. 

But  always  Beauty  called  him  back,  with  her  notes 
saying  "I  expect  you  this  afternoon,"  or  *'Meet  me 
at  one-thirty,"  and  not  a  day  passed  but  that  he 
left  his  work  hurriedly  to  join  her  somewhere  in 
town  for  luncheon  or  tea  or  dinner,  so  that  his 
pencils  lay  idle  and  his  palette  dry.  Worse  than  the 
idleness  which  interrupted  his  spells  of  work  was 
the  feverish  excitement  which  jangled  his  nerves, 
and  consumed  him  like  a  fire,  so  that  even  when  he 
had  a  few  hours  alone  in  his  studio  he  could  not 
[308] 


I 


THE  UNKNOWN  MOTHER 

settle  down  to  draw  from  the  model  and  wasted  his 
time  in  futile  efforts,  without  concentration  of  mind 
or  skill  of  hand.  For  Beauty's  moods  and  tempers, 
her  erratic  habits,  her  utter  disregard  of  his  time 
and  duties,  her  continual  commands  to  come  and 
**play"  with  her,  her  strange  eagerness  to  thrust  him 
into  the  society  of  her  friends,  though  she  did  not 
pretend  to  defend  their  moral  character,  or  even  to 
disguise  their  somewhat  shady  reputations,  filled  him 
with  vague  alarm,  and  with  uneasy  forebodings. 
His  ideal  of  Beauty,  the  perfect  mother,  was  bruised, 
though  he  tried  to  hide  the  bruises  from  his  own 
vision.  Sometimes  she  wounded  him  to  the  quick 
by  little  vulgarities,  by  little  revelations  of  her  sel- 
fishness, of  her  indifference  to  the  conventional  moral 
code,  of  a  low  level  of  thought  on  things  which 
Nicholas  had  believed  to  be  essential  to  the  quality 
of  womanhood.  Yet  to  get  a  smile  from  her,  to  hear 
her  laughter,  to  touch  her  hands,  to  call  her 
"Beauty,"  to  make  believe  that  this  mother  was  all 
that  he  desired,  he  abandoned  his  work,  turned  his 
back  upon  ambition,  and  was  false  to  those  who  had 
faith  in  him. 

The  crisis  came  one  day  when  he  opened  his  studio 
door  In  answer  to  an  unfamiliar  knock,  and  found 
his  father  on  the  threshold. 


[309] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CHOICE 

Nicholas  had  been  more  than  two  years  in  London 
before  that  day  when  his  father  arrived  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  with  the  news  that  he  had  given 
up  the  cottage  by  the  sea  and  had  come  to  Hve  in 
town  again. 

"You  and  I  must  set  up  house  together,  Nick, 
and  resume  our  old  comradeship,"  said  Bristles. 
"It  was  foolish  of  us  both  to  Hve  apart  all  this  time. 
I  have  missed  you  horribly." 

He  sat  down  in  the  studio,  and  looked  round  curi- 
ously. 

"A  charming  place  you've  got  here.  Expensive, 
eh?" 

"More  than  I  could  afford  alone,"  said  Nick. 
"Jack  Comyns  pays  the  lion's  share,  you  must  re- 
member." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Bristles.  "But  I  am 
making  a  bit  of  money  out  of  my  books  now.  That 
last  novel  of  mine  has  made  a  fair  hit,  thank  Heaven. 
I  need  not  look  twice  at  every  shilling.  .  .  .  Are 
there  any  places  like  this  w^e  could  fix  for  ourselves  ? 
You  and  I  together,  Nick!    That  will  be  great." 

Nicholas  saw  that  his  father  had  gone  gray  since 
[310] 


THE  CHOICE 

he  had  last  seen  him,  and  that  he  had  lost  some 
of  his  old  gaiety.  There  was,  too,  a  kind  of  shy- 
ness in  his  manner,  as  though  he  was  hiding  some- 
thing from  his  son,  or  as  though  he  had  something 
on  his  mind  which  he  found  it  difficult  to  say.  And 
Nick  was  embarrassed  also,  hideously  embarrassed, 
because  he  expected  at  any  moment  a  visit  from  his 
mother,  who  had  made  a  habit,  lately,  of  calling  at 
his  studio  to  fetch  him  away  from  work,  or  to  sit 
chatting  with  Jack  Comyns,  if  that  young  man  hap- 
pened to  be  handy — they  amused  each  other  vastly 
- — or  to  wander  round  the  room  examining  the  life 
studies  of  the  two  art  students.  It  would  be  a  hor- 
rible situation  if  Beauty  called  when  his  father  was 
there.     What  on  earth  should  he  do? 

There  was  another  reason  why  this  visit  embar- 
rassed him.  For  more  than  a  year  now  he  had  been 
waiting  for  the  announcement  of  his  father's  mar- 
riage with  Mary  Lavenham.  In  letters  he  had  re- 
ceived from  Captain  Muffett  there  had  been  plain 
statements  to  the  effect  that  Miss  Lavenham  and 
his  father  passed  a  great  deal  of  time  in  each  other's 
company,  and  were  undoubtedly  deep  in  love.  At 
least  the  old  Admiral  had  no  doubt  of  it,  and  in  his 
simple,  misspelled  letters,  written  with  great  splut- 
ters of  ink,  he  had  expressed  his  opinion  that  Nick 
would  soon  have  a  new  mother,  and  that  his  good 
father  was  the  only  man  in  the  world  worthy  of  this 

[311] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

dear,  brave  lady.     Nick  remembered  some  of  his 
sentences. 

I  am  a- weary  of  waiting  for  the  sound  of 
marriage  bells  [he  spelt  marriage  with  one  "r"] 
but  I  have  a  flag  ready  to  hoist  in  the  front  garden, 
when  Mary  Lavenham  goes  to  church  in  her  best 
dress.  It  will  be  a  happy  day  for  the  old  Admiral, 
and  after  that  he  won't  care  how  soon  he  sails  into  the 
haven  of  eternal  rest. 

After  his  going  away  from  Barhampton  his 
father's  weekly  budget — the  letter  came  as  regu- 
larly as  clockwork  by  the  first  post  on  Monday  morn- 
ing— had  contained  vague  hints  of  a  probable  change 
in  his  condition  of  life.  For  a  year  or  more  there 
had  been  in  all  his  letters  veiled  allusions  to  Mary 
Lavenham' s  influence  in  his  life.  He  quoted  some 
of  her  words,  as  for  instance: 

I  was  much  struck  last  night  by  something  Miss 
Lavenham  said  when  we  were  walking  along  the  sand 
dunes.  We  were  talking  of  novel  writing,  and,  indeed, 
of  all  forms  of  art,  and  she  ended  the  conversation 
with  a  laugh  (you  know  the  sound  of  her  laughter, 
Nick),  and  then  said  in  her  dogmatic  way:  "Life  is 
greater  than  art,  and  words  are  only  the  ghosts  of 
deeds.  To  do  a  thing  is  better  than  to  write  about  it." 
That  seems  to  me  true  criticism.  It  is  a  rebuke  to 
the  self-conceit  of  the  artistic  temperament. 

[312] 


I 


THE  CHOICE 

And  again : 

I  was  talking  with  Mary  Lavenham  last  night  in 
her  little  sitting-room — you  know  how  she  loves  to  chat 
in  the  twilight  before  the  lamps  are  lighted — and  she 
was  full  of  hopes  about  your  work  and  success.  She 
takes  more  than  a  friendly  interest  in  your  career, 
Nick.  It  is  a  motherly  interest,  and  she  thinks  of  you 
as  a  woman  of  her  only  son.  I  wish  you  would  write 
to  her  more  often. 

But  latterly  in  his  father's  letters  there  had  been 
a  change  of  tone.  A  note  of  sadness  had  crept  into 
them,  with  here  and  there  a  touch  of  pessimism,  as 
though  he  were  passing  through  some  unhappy  crisis. 
His  allusions  to  Mary  Lavenham  were  not  so  fre- 
quent. He  complained  of  loneliness.  He  regretted 
that  he  had  the  cottage  pn  his  hands,  so  that  he 
could  not  join  Nick  in  town.  Several  times  he  put 
into  his  letters  queer  sentences  on  the  subject  of  love 
and  women,  as  though  warning  his  son  of  feminine 
entanglements. 

Do  not  be  too  quick  to  fall  in  love,  Nick.  Stick  to 
your  work;  it  is  the  safest  way  of  satisfying  one's 
heart  and  intellect.  No  doubt  you  will  not  be  able 
to  escape  the  allurements  of  women.  Nature  will  not 
let  you  escape.  But  do  not  go  half  way  to  meet  your 
trouble.  For  love  is  always  a  trouble,  horribly  dis- 
turbing, and  sometimes  destroying.  Most  women  are 
reckless  of  men's  hearts.  Even  the  best  of  them  are 
strangely  careless  of  inflicting  pain.    And  a  man  may 

[313] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

never  be  certain  of  them,  because  they  are  never  cer- 
tain of  themselves.  Women  are  not  logical,  even  in 
their  emotions.  As  a  bachelor,  Nick,  you  will  have 
your  best  time,  especially  as  a  bachelor  of  art,  de- 
voted to  a  mistress  who  has  utter  loyalty. 


Nicholas  had  read  these  recent  letters  with  a  sense 
of  perplexity.  What  had  happened  between  his 
father  and  Mary  Lavenham?  He  guessed  that  in 
those  two  whitewashed  cottages  at  Barhampton  some 
strange  drama  was  happening  which  had  not  been 
revealed  to  him,  and  had  not  been  guessed  by  the 
^'Admiral,"  whose  letters  still  harped  on  the  old  sen- 
timental string.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a  quarrel 
which  would  keep  his  father  single.  That  idea  be- 
came a  conviction  now  that  his  father  sat  in  the 
studio,  discussing  plans  for  the  future  which  left 
Mary  Lavenham  out  of  account. 

But  at  the  sight  of  the  gray  hair  of  "Bristles," 
who  had  been  his  best  comrade  in  life,  and  seeing 
sadness  in  his  eyes,  Nick  was  filled  with  compunction 
for  his  own  selfishness.  He  realized  with  a  sudden 
remorse  that  ever  since  Beauty  had  come  back  to 
him  he  had  been  drawing  more  and  more  away  from 
his  father,  had  thrust  him  out  of  his  thoughts  as 
much  as  possible,  and  had  even  been  guilty  of  dis- 
loyalty to  him.  For  once  or  twice  when  Beauty  had 
spoken  of  ''sulky  old  Bristles,"  he  had  not  defended 
the  man  whose  life  she  had  wrecked,  and  had  taken 
[314] 


THE  CHOICE 

the  woman's  side  in  that  tragedy  which  had  been  of 
her  making.  Though  he  knew  now  that  Beauty  was 
fickle  to  the  heart,  though  he  knew  her  vanity  and 
her  shallowness,  her  lack  of  any  moral  sense,  her 
innate  vulgarity  of  mind,  she  had  put  such  a  spell 
upon  him  that  he  was  bitterly  annoyed  that  his 
father  had  come  to  town,  resentful  of  the  thought 
that  he  would  have  to  dodge  him  to  get  away  to 
Beauty,  and  scared  by  the  deception  to  which  he 
would  be  put^  dividing  his  time  between  these  two 
people.  Each  claimed  him,  and  he  would  be  torn  in 
half  between  them. 

So  now,  hating  himself  because  he  had  no  hearty 
greeting  for  his  father,  he  sat  rather  silent,  rather 
moody,  and  utterly  miserable,  so  that  Bristles  was 
surprised  and  pained  by  this  cold  greeting. 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  when  they  had  dined 
together  at  the  hotel  where  Bristles  was  putting  up 
for  the  night  that  something  of  the  old  comrade- 
ship between  them  revived.  When  they  sat  in  a 
lonely  corner  of  the  smoking  room.  Bristles  pulled 
out  one  of  his  old  and  favorite  pipes — Nick  recog- 
nized its  well-burned  bowl — and  after  a  few  puffs 
began  to  speak  of  his  life  at  Barhampton  as  though 
it  were  already  remote,  and  an  episode  of  the  past. 
Then  he  said,  in  quite  a  careless  way,  as  though 
he  had  just  remembered  a  piece  of  news  for  Nick. 

''By  the  by,  there  will  be  three  empty  cottages 

[315] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

to  let  this  season.  Our  little  colony  will  be  quite 
broken  up." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Nick. 

''Well,  our  cottage  is  already  empty,  and  there 
are  rK)tice  boards  up  in  Mary  Lavenhaiii's  front 
garden  and  Edward  Frampton's  grass-plot." 

''What!"  said  Nick.  "Surely  they  are  not  going 
to  leave!" 

"Yes,  in  a  few  weeks.  They  are  going  to  get 
married.    I  think  they  will  set  up  a  flat  in  town." 

"Mary  Lavenham  and  the  Merman.  Good  God! 
— I — I — thought ' ' 

Nick  was  astounded.  He  gazed  at  his  father  in 
blank  amazement. 

Bristles  puffed  at  his  pipe  very  quietly.  A  Httle 
color  came  Into  his  face,  and  then  faded  out.  He 
looked  up  at  Nick  with  a  curious  smile. 

"My  dear  boy,  I  thought  so  too.  I  used  to  have 
an  idea  that  Mary  Lavenham  and  I  might  set  up 
house  together.  It  was  a  bad  blow  when  I  found  out 
my  mistake.  It  was  a  hard  knock  for  a  time,  but 
I  have  got  over  it.  One  gets  over  most  things,  I 
notice." 

There  was  a  great  silence  for  a  time.  Nick  did 
not  dare  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this  mystery.  He 
shrank  from  questioning  his  father.  But  presently 
Bristles  drew  his  chair  a  little  closer  to  the  fire,  and, 
staring  into  the  flame,  spoke  in  a  quiet,  thoughtful 
way,  as  though  analyzing  a  queer  psychological 
[316] 


1 


THE  CHOICE 

problem,  interesting  to  a  novelist  like  himself,  but 
not  disturbing  to  him. 

"Mary  Lavenham  is  an  extraordinary  woman.  I 
never  pretended  to  understand  her,  though  from  the 
very  first  I  admired  her  fine  courage,  her  splendid 
commonsense,  her  womanly  helpfulness.  She  has 
a  genius  for  friendship,  especially  with  men.  You 
know  her  gift  of  sympathy  and  her  candor.  .  .  . 
It  was  that  which  deceived  me.  I  came  to  imagine 
that  the  sympathy  she  showed  for  my  work  and  ideas 
was  something  exceptional,  something,  I  mean,  she 
gave  to  me  alone.  I  got  it  into  my  head  that  she 
revealed  herself  to  me  with  a  frankness,  an  in- 
timacy, which  no  other  man  could  claim  from  her. 
In  that  I  was  mistaken.  She  has  so  big  a  heart  that 
any  man  in  distress,  any  man  needing  a  little  con- 
solation or  companionship,  may  be  sure  of  her  gifts. 
She  gave  herself,  spiritually,  I  mean,  and  intellectu- 
ally— in  a  prodigal  way  to  any  unfortunate.  .  .  . 
I  think  for  a  time  she  and  I  were  tremendously  taken 
up  with  each  other.  I  think,  even  now,  there  were 
periods  when  my  need  of  her  touched  her  emotions, 
stirred  her  senses  a  little.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
...  But  the  man  who  had  the  greatest  need 
of  her  outri vailed  me.  That  was  Frampton,  He, 
poor  devil,  suffered  agony  in  his  desire  for  her,  and 
she  knew  that,  and  was  convinced  that  she  ought 
to  sacrifice  herself  to  save  him.  Indeed,  I  think  for 
years  she  had  come  to  look  upon  it  as  her  duty,  as 

[317] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

a  kind  of  sacred  vocation — the  saving  of  Edv^ard 
Frampton;  and  when  I  came,  and  appealed  to  her 
in  a  different  way,  touching  her  sense  of  romance, 
calhng  to  the  sentimental  side  of  her  nature,  she 
looked  upon  me  as  a  temptation.  Rather  humiliat- 
ing to  me,  eh,  Nick  ?  To  be  regarded  as  a  tempta- 
tion! .  .  .  Anyhow,  just  as  I  thought  I  had 
broken  down  the  last  barrier  between  us,  when  I 
thought  I  held  her  heart  in  my  hands,  she  drew 
back  and  escaped  from  me,  and  surrendered  to 
Frampton.  ...  A  queer  kind  of  drama.  Like 
a  novel.  Frampton  knew^  all  the  time  that  he  was 
really  master  of  this  woman,  if  only  he  put  his 
conscience  on  one  side  and  pleaded  his  weakness. 
He  was  master  of  her  through  his  weakness.  Be- 
cause of  his  besetting  sin  she  loved  him  and  was 
eager  to  save  him.  For  a  long  time  he  struggled 
between  honor  and  dishonor.  His  conscience  told 
him  that  he  would  be  a  coward  to  accept  the  woman's 
sacrifice.  His  passion  for  her  tempted  him  devil- 
ishly. ...  It  was  only  when  he  saw  her  yield- 
ing to  me  that  he  gave  a  great  cry  to  her,  and  said, 
*If  you  abandon  me  I  die!'  It  was  that  cry  which 
captured  her.  She  drew  herself  away  from  me  and 
said,  'Frampton  needs  me  most.  I  must  go  to  him.' 
An  extraordinary  situation.  Hardly 
credible!  A  novelist  would  be  a  fool  to  use  such  a 
plot.  But  there  it  is,  in  actual  life.  Mary  Laven- 
ham  will  become  the  wife  of  an  habitual  drunkard, 

[318] 


I 


THE  CHOICE 

in  order  to  save  his  body  and  soul,  and  I — I  suffer 
because  I  am  a  decent-living  man.  What  do  you 
think  of  it,  Nick?    Pretty  queer,  don't  you  think?" 

"Damnable!"  said  Nick.     'Trightfull" 

He  spoke  those  words  in  all  sincerity,  horrified 
at  the  thought  that  Mary  Lavenham  was  to  be  mated 
to  a  man  who,  at  regular  or  irregular  periods,  was 
changed  into  a  besotted  beast.  Yet,  so  queerly  do 
things  pull  against  each  other  in  men's  hearts,  he 
was  secretly  rejoiced  that  his  father  would  not  marry 
again,  and  even  a  little  glad  that  Edward  Frampton, 
for  whom  in  his  normal  moods  he  had  still  an  ad- 
miration, not  far  removed  from  love,  was  not 
doomed  to  that  fate  which  had  been  prophesied  for 
him  by  Captain  Muffett,  if  he  were  left  alone.  This 
thought  reminded  him  of  the  old  sailor-man  who 
had  staked  his  faith  on  a  love  match  between  Mary 
Lavenham  and  his  father. 

"What  does  the  old  Admiral  think  of  it?"  he 
asked. 

Bristles  laughed.  The  blow  dealt  to  him  by  a 
woman's  hand,  the  second  blow  which  had  smashed 
him  for  a  time,  had  not  killed  his  sense  of  humor. 

"The  Admiral  does  more  than  think.  He  rages 
and  storms.  Mary  had  the  deuce  of  a  time  with  him. 
He  accused  her  of  being  an  abandoned  hussy,  and 
said  that  he  had  a  good  mind  to  shoot  Frampton 
like  a  dog.  Then  he  blubbered  like  a  baby  and 
said  she  had  spoiled  the  dream  of  his  old  age.  Lately 
[319] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

he  took  to  coming  round  in  the  evenings  to  cheer 
me  up,  and  quoted  the  Scriptures,  especially  the  Book 
of  Job,  over  his  whiskey  and  water.  A  good  old 
man,  though  he  nearly  drove  me  mad." 

That  night  when  Nick  left  his  father's  hotel, 
Bristles  kissed  him  on  the  cheek  as  though  he  were 
a  small  boy  again,  and  then  held  him  tight  by  the 
arm  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"I  shall  be  dashed  glad,  old  man,  to  be  alone  with 
you  again — ^you  with  your  art,  I  with  my  books.  It 
will  be  like  old  times,  when  we  two  were  the  happiest 
pair  of  bachelors  in  the  world.  We  must  search  for 
a  place  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  said  Nick.     "Yes." 

But  as  he  walked  back  to  the  Fulham  Road  his 
mind  was  full  of  doubts  and  fears.  How  on  earth 
could  he  set  up  house  with  his  father,  when  Beauty 
was  clamoring  at  his  heart?  Not  once  in  any  of 
his  letters  had  he  mentioned  the  name  of  Beauty. 
Never  by  any  hint  had  he  let  his  father  know  that 
he  had  found  his  mother  again.  She  would  not  be 
content  to  see  him  only  once  in  a  while.  He  would 
not  be  able  to  steal  away  for  odd  half  hours.  Even 
now,  after  only  one  day's  absence,  he  found  on  the 
door-mat  inside  the  studio  one  of  Beauty's  cards, 
on  which  she  had  written:  "What  on  earth  has 
happened  to  you?"  and  two  notes  sent  down  by 
hand,  commanding  him  to  lunch  with  her,  and  to 
dine  with  her.  In  one  of  them  she  said:  "Kitty 
[320] 


THE  CHOICE 

Burpham  will  be  desolated  without  you.  She  says 
you  are  the  only  good  influence  in  her  naughty  life," 
and  in  the  second  note  she  said : 

Baby  Burpham  is  going  away  for  the  week-end,  so 
you  and  Kitty  will  be  able  to  flirt  with  each  other  to 
your  hearts*  content.  Oh,  you  young  people!  It  is 
a  good  thing  I  am  old  enough  to  play  the  part  of 
Mother  Grundy. 

Nicholas  tore  up  both  letters  and  flung  them  into 
the  waste-paper  basket.  These  constant  allusions  to 
Lady  Burpham  were  beginning  to  make  him  angry. 
The  way  in  which  Beauty  thrust  this  girl  into  his 
company  was  becoming  more  than  a  joke.  Kitty 
amused  him  sometimes,  attracted  him  a  good  deal 
— she  had  a  beauty  to  which  he  could  not  be  blind 
and  a  wicked  sense  of  humor  which  kept  his  brain 
on  the  alert — ^but  it  was  not  good  for  him  to  see 
too  much  of  her,  and,  after  all,  she  was  a  married 
woman.  Nick  was  conscious  that  Kitty  had  a 
dangerous  look  in  her  eye  at  times  when  she  smiled 
at  him.  It  was  a  tempting  look,  which  scared  him. 
He  would  have  to  be  careful  of  her,  and  of  himself, 
yet  Beauty  seemed  deliberately  to  put  him  in  the 
way  of  temptation.  It  was  almost  as  though  she 
wished  him  to  lose  his  heart  to  Baby  Burpham' s 
wife. 

Jack  Comyns  came  in  late  from  a  dance  at  the 
Chelsea  Town  Hall,  and  found  Nick  sitting  in  semi- 

[321] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

darkness  on  the  model's  throne,  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees  and  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Hulloh,  old  Dream-a-day !"  said  Comyns.  "I 
have  been  hearing  all  sorts  of  bad  things  about  you 
to-night" 

"I  can  quite  believe  it,"  said  Nick.  **What 
things?" 

Comyns  laughed,  but  he  gave  a  serious  glance 
at  his  chum. 

*'I  expect  it  was  only  the  kind  of  things  one  hears 
from  one's  candid  friend.  It  was  young  Gibbon, 
who  is  out  for  the  Gold  Medal.  He  says  he's  not 
much  afraid  of  you  now,  as  your  hand  has  lost  its 
cunning.  According  to  him  your  work  has  been 
falling  off  pretty  badly  lately." 

Nick  groaned. 

"I  know.  I  can't  put  in  a  decent  line.  The  game 
is  up  as  far  as  I'm  concerned." 

"My  dear  old  lad,"  said  Comyns  in  his  cheerful 
way,  "what  did  I  tell  you?  If  you  will  go  gadding 
about  with  a  long-lost  mother,  I  mean  a  newly  found 
one,  what  can  you  expect?" 

"For  God's  sake  don't  give  me  good  advice !"  said 
Nick.  "It's  so  devilish  easy,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  Be- 
sides .  .  .  I've  got  a  father  to  look  after  me 
now." 

Comyns  whistled.  "What,  has  the  famous  nov- 
elist come  to  town?" 

Nick  nodded  and  groaned  again. 
[322] 


THE  CHOICE 

"I'm  in  a  deuce  of  a  fix.  I  haven't  the  ghost 
of  a  notion  what  to  do." 

Comyns  was  very  thoughtful  for  at  least  a  minute. 

^'There's  only  one  thing  you  can  do,"  he  said. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Nick. 

"Give  one  or  the  other  the  go-by.  You  can't  take 
tea  with  your  lady  mother  one  day  and  supper  with 
your  honored  father  the  next.  They  would  be  as 
jealous  of  each  other  as  cat  and  dog,  and  you  would 
have  to  stand  the  racket.  It  won't  work,  old  son. 
Believe  me." 

"How  the  devil  do  you  know?"  asked  Nick. 

Comyns  was  sententious  as  he  took  off  his  danc- 
ing pumps  and  flung  them  one  after  the  other  into 
the  waste-paper  basket  with  unerring  aim. 

"As  a  student  of  French  fiction  there  is  nothing  I 
don't  know  about  the  relations  between  men  and 
women.  There  is  a  short  story  I  remember — the 
author's  name  escapes  me  for  the  moment — in  which 
your  present  situation  is  completely  and  delicately 
analyzed.  The  story  ended  in  the  tragedy  of  the 
only  son  of  the  divorced  couple.  I  forget  whether 
he  murdered  his  father,  or  whether  he  drowned  him- 
self in  the  Seine.  However,  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm 
sleepy     .     .      .     good-night." 

There  was  no  good-night  for  Nick.  He  tossed 
about  sleeplessly,  and  had  haggard  eyes  when  at 
twelve  o'clock  next  day  his  father  called  round  with 
[323] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

the  news  that  he  had  found  a  jolly  little  house  in 
Redcliffe  Road  which  would  suit  them  to  a  T. 

"I  am  afraid  there  will  be  too  much  work  for 
Polly,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  get  a  little  maid  to  help 
her.  Come  round  and  have  a  look  at  the  place,  old 
man/' 

But  when  Nick  was  putting  on  his  boots  and  when 
his  father  was  looking  at  some  of  the  drawings  on 
the  wall,  the  door  which  had  been  left  unfastened, 
was  flung  open,  and  a  gay  voice  cried  out,  "I  be- 
lieve the  boy  is  still  in  bed!"  and — Beauty  came  in. 

*'0f  all  the  unsociable,  disgruntled,  discourteous, 
ungrateful  and  unloving  sons!"  she  cried,  standing 
inside  the  door  with  her  arm  outstretched  as  she  held 
the  knob  of  a  very  tall  parasol,  and  struck  an  atti- 
tude of  melodramatic  indignation. 

Nick  did  not  answer.  He  had  just  finished  lacing 
up  his  boots,  and  he  sat  staring  at  his  mother,  in  a 
stupid,  speechless  way.  In  a  second  she  became 
aware  that  something  was  amiss,  and  aware  also  of 
a  third  person  in  the  room.  She  turned  her  head, 
just  as  the  man  who  had  been  her  husband  swung 
round  on  his  heel  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

^'Bristles!"  said  Beauty. 

The  word  came  in  a  wliisper  from  her  lips,  and 
all  the  laughter  fled  out  of  her  eyes,  changing  to  a 
look  of  fear. 

The  man  she  had  called  by  his  old  pet  name  stood 
[324] 


THE  CHOICE 

very  straight,  staring  at  her,  so  that  their  eyes 
searched  each  other.  A  wave  of  color  swept  into 
her  face,  and  then  died  down,  leaving  it  white. 

It  seemed  quite  a  long  time  that  they  stood  like 
this,  while  there  was  a  great  silence  in  the  room. 
Then  at  last  Beauty  turned,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  screwed  out  something  like  a  laugh. 

"How  funny!"  she  said,  ''after  all  these  years! 
You  have  hardly  changed  a  little  bit, 
Bristles!" 

''I  have  changed,"  said  Bristles,  *'in  body  and 
heart  and  brain." 

He  spoke  in  a  queer  hollow  voice,  and  the  lines 
in  his  face  hardened. 

Beauty  put  her  head  a  little  on  one  side  and 
quizzed  him,  with  the  flicker  of  a  smile  about  her 
lips. 

"You  have  grown  a  wee  bit  gray,''  she  said. 

She  sidled  forward  a  little,  and  held  out  her  hand, 
and  said: 

"Why  not?" 

Nick's  father  drew  back  from  her  hand,  as  a  man 
would  draw  back  from  the  fangs  of  a  snake. 

"I  do  not  know  you,"  he  said.  "I  must  beg  of 
you  to  leave  this  room,  where  my  son  and  I  wish  to 
be  alone  together." 

He  spoke  the  words  with  a  great  deliberation, 
each  syllable  perfectly  accented,  like  a  man  speaking 
[325  1 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

in  a  foreign  tongue.  Only  the  rise  and  fall  of  his 
chest  showed  that  he  was  deeply  moved. 

Beauty  laughed  now  in  quite  a  natural  way,  a 
shrill,  scornful  laugh. 

*'Leave  this  room?  My  dear  good  man,  I  came 
here  to  see  Nick,  who  is  more  my  son  than  yours. 
Very  much  more.  I  shall  stay  here  as  long  as  I 
like." 

Bristles  turned  to  his  son. 

"Nick,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "will  you  order  this 
woman  out  of  your  studio?" 

Beauty  was  very  much  amused. 

"I  should  like  to  see  him  do  it!  I  should  jolly 
well  like  to  see  him  do  it!" 

She  went  across  to  him  and  put  her  arms  about 
his  shoulders  as  he  sat  in  the  cane  chair,  just  as 
he  had  sat  when  lacing  up  his  boots.  She  bent  her 
head  down  and  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his. 

"Dear  old  Nick!  My  dear  precious  boy!  He 
would  rather  die  than  wound  his  mother's  heart." 

Nicholas  Barton  was  as  pale  as  death. 

He  stared  up  at  his  father  in  a  tragic  way.  Tre- 
mendous forces  were  at  work  within  him,  plucking 
at  his  heart,  tearing  him  asunder.  His  father's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him,  called  to  his  loyalty,  to  their 
old  comradeship.  There  was  a  great  entreaty  in  his 
father's  face.  But  his  mother's  arms  were  about  his 
neck.  Her  face  was  pressed  against  his.  His  cheek 
was  wet  with  her  tears  which  had  begun  to  flow. 

[326] 


THE  CHOICE 

She  was  Beauty,  his  mother,  for  whom  he  had 
yearned  all  the  days  of  his  boyhood. 

"Father!"  he  said,  "couldn't  you  make  it  up 
again?  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  and  Beauty  come 
together  again?    Is  it  too  late?" 

These  words,  these  faltering  words,  seemed  to 
give  a  kind  of  shock  to  the  man  and  woman.  Beauty 
unclasped  her  arms  from  her  son's  neck,  and  stood 
up  straight,  with  an  extraordinary  look  on  her  face, 
a  look  of  hard  contempt  for  the  man  who  had  been 
her  husband,  a  rather  cruel  look. 

"That  is  not  at  all  likely.     Once  bit  twice  shy!" 

Bristles  stared  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Nick  does  not  understand  what  he  asks.  .  ,  . 
I  tell  him  now,  before  you,  that  I  would  rather  drown 
myself  than  live  again  with  a  woman  who  has  no 
sense  of  honor,  no  decency  of  mind  or  heart,  no 
honesty  or  truth.  It  was  too  late  to  come  together 
again  fourteen  years  ago,  when  you  betrayed  me 
once  too  often." 

Nick  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  his  face  aflame. 

"Father,  I — I — must  defend  Beauty.  I  am  her 
son.    Do  you  forget  that?" 

Beauty  sprang  to  him  and  put  her  arm  through 
his,  and  laid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  weeping. 

"Yes,  Nick,  you  are  my  son !  Thank  God  I  may 
lean  on  you  now.  In  the  old  days  I  had  no  one  to 
defend  me." 

Bristles  ignored  the  woman.  He  spoke  to  Nick. 
[327] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"I  do  not  forget  you  are  her  son.  But  you  do 
not  remember  that  I  am  your  father.  Which  has 
the  greater  claim  on  you?  The  mother  who  aban- 
doned you,  or  the  father  who  cherished  you?  An- 
swer me,  Nick." 

Nick  answered,  but  it  was  not  a  straight  answer. 

"There  were  faults  on  both  sides.  There  must 
have  been !  It  was  not  all  Beauty's  fault.  You  told 
me  that  long  ago." 

"It  was  all  your  father's  fault!"  cried  Beauty  in 
a  sharp,  shrill  voice.  "You  do  not  know  what  I 
suffered  from  that  man,  dear  Nick.  Oh,  you  will 
never  know  I  He  was  as  hard  as  nails  to  me.  He 
was  my  schoolmaster.  He  whipped  me  with  a  moral 
birch,  scourged  me  with  the  lash  of  his  virtuous 
conceit.  If  he  had  been  a  little  kind  to  me  I  should 
have  clung  to  him.  If  he  had  been  my  mate  instead 
of  my  school  teacher  I  should  have  leaned  upon  him. 
He  could  have  kept  me  straight  with  a  smile,  and 
called  me  back  with  a  word  of  love.  But  he  was 
always  nagging,  blaming,  bullying.  He  was  jealous 
of  my  art,  jealous  of  my  friends,  jealous  even  of 
you,  little  Nick.  He  was  as  hard  as  this  deal  table 
here." 

She  struck  the  table  with  her  bare  hand  and  said : 

"Hard!     .     .     .    Hard!    .     .     .    Hard!" 

The  lips  of  the  man  who  had  been  her  husband 
were  twisted  into  a  tragic  smile,  and  he  spoke  to 
Nick  again,  not  looking  at  the  woman. 

[328] 


THE  CHOICE 

"Do  you  believe  that,  Nick?  Is  there  any  hard- 
ness in  my  nature  ?  .  .  .  Good  God !  I  was  as 
weak  as  water.  If  I  had  had  any  strength  of  will 
to  master  her  I  might  have  kept  her  straight.  But 
I  was  a  fool  in  her  hands.  It  was  she  who  was 
hard.  She  had  the  hardness  of  utter  selfishness. 
She  was  as  cruel  as  a  tiger  cat,  and  dug  her  claws 
into  my  heart.  I  have  still  her  marks.  The  wounds 
still  bleed  at  times." 

Beauty's  face  was  on  fire. 

"Your  father  was  always  a  liar,  Nick,"  she  said, 
speaking  through  clenched  teeth.  Her  hands  were 
clenched  also,  as  though  they  were  ready  to  strike 
the  man  who  had  called  her  a  tiger  cat. 

Nicholas  stood  between  these  two  people  who  were 
the  authors  of  his  being. 

He  stood  grasping  the  lapels  of  his  coat,  with  his 
head  drooping  and  his  eyes  staring  at  the  floor.  He 
was  a  tragic  figure  there,  this  son  listening  to  the 
terrible  words  of  the  man  and  woman  who  accused 
each  other.  He  belonged  so  much  to  both  of  them. 
He  had  his  father's  clean-cut  face,  but  his  mother 
was  in  his  eyes.  He  had  his  father's  voice,  the  same 
inflections  of  the  voice,  but  Beauty  had  given  him 
his  poise  of  the  head,  the  unconscious  trick  of  pas- 
sionate gesture.  Their  flesh  and  blood  mingled  in 
him  and  no  surgeon  could  cut  out  the  mother's  share, 
or  the  father's. 

He  raised  both  hands  to  his  head  and  then  flung 
[329] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

them  out  as  he  turned  round  and  faced  his  father. 

"Lord  God!"  he  said,  "how  am  I  to  be  the  judge 
between  you?" 

There  was  a  silence.  His  father  was  staring  at 
one  of  Jack  Comyns'  sketches  of  a  dancing  girl, 
tacked  on  the  wall,  as  though  it  had  put  a  spell  upon 
him.  Then  he  came  down  to  Nick,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"You  must  be  the  judge,"  he  said.  "At  least  you 
must  choose  between  us.  Fourteen  years  ago  the 
law  gave  you  to  me.  It  condemned  this  woman  and 
gave  me  the  custody  of  the  child.  Did  I  fail  in  my 
trust?  Did  I  not  pour  out  my  love  upon  you?  You 
and  I  have  been  good  comrades,  Nick.  Are  you 
going  to  let  this  woman  kill  our  comradeship?" 

As  he  spoke  the  last  sentences  his  voice  faltered 
and  broke. 

Beauty  plucked  at  Nick's  sleeve. 

"The  law  was  cruel  to  me,  Nick.  It  robbed  me 
of  you.  I  bore  you  in  pain  and  agony.  The  law 
could  not  alter  that  fact  by  writing  something  in  a 
book.  As  the  mother  who  bore  you  I  claim  you  now. 
Oh,  you  will  not  leave  me  again!  You  will  not, 
Nick!" 

She  put  her  face  down  and  sobbed,  and  smothered 
his  hand  with  kisses  so  that  it  was  wet  with  her 
tears. 

On  the  other  side  of  him  his  father's  hand  was 
upon  his  shoulder. 

[330] 


THE  CHOICE 

^^Nick,"  said  the  man,  very  calmly  and  quietly.  "I 
can  see  that  this  woman  is  deceiving  you,  just  as 
she  deceived  me.  She  is  play-acting  now,  as  she 
is  always  a  play-actress.  Do  you  think  that  emotion 
is  real  ?  I  have  seen  her  do  it  on  the  stage,  to  make 
the  servant  girls  50b  in  the  gallery.  Those  tears  are 
not  real,  my  dear  fellow.  They  are  sham  tears 
without  salt  in  them.  She  pretends  to  love  you,  to 
long  for  you.  For  fourteen  years  she  did  not  give 
you  a  thought.  She  only  wants  you  for  a  little  while 
as  a  plaything.  When  she  is  tired  of  you  she  will 
fling  you  away,  like  a  broken  toy." 

He  took  his  hand  from  Nick's  shoulder,  and 
pulled  out  his  watch. 

"This  scene  has  lasted  too  long.  It  is  a  tragic 
farce.     I  can't  stand  any  more  of  it." 

He  looked  into  his  son's  eyes  again,  and  all  his 
soul  seemed  to  be  in  his  gaze. 

"One  of  us  must  go,  Nick.  Which  is  it  to  be? 
Are  you  going  to  turn  this  woman  out — or  me  ?" 

He  went  over  to  an  oak  chest  and  picked  up  his 
hat  and  stick  and  gloves.  Then  he  spoke  again,  as 
Nick  stood  silent. 

"I  came  up  to  town  with  the  idea  that  you  and 
I  should  set  up  house  together.  I  had  set  my  heart 
on  it — not  guessing  that  this  was  going  to  happen. 
But  it  must  be  one  thing  or  the  other.  I  can't  share 
you  with  this  woman,  who  would  always  be  poison- 
ing your  mind  against  me,  always  tempting  you 
[331] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

away  from  me.  When  you  came  back  I  should  smell 
her  scent  on  you,  I  should  see  her  lies  rankling  in 
your  brain.  I  should  see  the  ghost  of  her  hand 
dragging  you  away.  No,  that  wouldn't  do  at  all. 
We  should  both  be  miserable.  .  .  .  Come,  Nick, 
old  man.     Make  your  choice.    Which  is  it  to  be?" 

"Nick  will  stay  with  me!"  cried  Beauty.  She 
flung  her  arms  round  her  son,  and  put  her  face 
up  to  his.  Then  she  cried  out  again  with  a  triumph 
in  her  voice,  *'Nick  will  stay  with  me !" 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Nick. 

He  was  frightfully  white.  This  torture  was  too 
much  for  him.  A  tremendous  sorrow  was  upon  him, 
because  he  had  to  make  a  choice  which  Nature  never 
meant  a  man  to  make. 

"Well?"  said  his  father. 

Nick  put  his  arm  round  his  mother's  waist. 

"I  can't  desert  Beauty,"  he  said.  "I  can't  .  .  . 
It's  impossible." 

He  had  made  his  choice. 

"Nick  will  stay  with  me,"  said  Beauty.  She  gave 
an  hysterical  laugh  and  stroked  his  face,  and  laid  her 
head  upon  his  chest,  like  a  woman  with  her  lover. 

The  man  who  had  once  been  her  lover,  whose  face 
she  had  stroked  like  this,  did  not  look  at  her.  He 
seemed  to  have  grown  older  since  Nick  had  spoken 
his  last  words.  There  were  new  lines  about  his 
eyes  and  lips.  But  his  voice  was  steady  when  he 
turned  at  the  studio  door. 

[332] 


THE  CHOICE 

"Good-by,  Nick.  When  she  has  tired  of  you  I 
shall  be  waiting  for  you.  I  will  send  you  my  ad- 
dress." 

He  went  out  of  the  door,  and  there  was  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps  down  the  passage  leading  to  the 
street. 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  mother  and  son  stood 
motionless  and  silent.  Then  Beauty  unclasped  her 
arms  from  Nick,  and  mopped  her  eyes,  and  laughed, 
and  cried  a  little. 

"That  man  is  a  devil,"  she  said. 

"He  is  my  father/'  said  Nick. 


[  333  I 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

Bristles  did  not  stay  very  long  in  London  after  his 
arrival  from  Barhampton.  In  a  friendly  letter  to 
Nick,  which  made  no  allusion  to  the  tragic  scene 
in  the  studio,  he  explained  that  he  had  taken  a  small 
house  in  Redcliffe  Road,  and  that  Polly  had  super- 
intended the  moving  of  his  furniture  from  the  cot- 
tage in  her  usual  indefatigable  spirit.  They  were 
still  in  the  throes  of  the  horrid  business  of  settling 
down.  But  he  himself  was  in  an  unsettled  mood, 
and  as  soon  as  things  were  straight,  proposed  to  go 
for  a  walking  tour  in  Normandy  to  blow  the  cob- 
webs out  of  his  eyes  and  get  some  local  color  for 
some  scenes  of  a  new  novel  which  was  already  tak- 
ing shape  in  his  head. 

Following  upon  this  letter  came  a  succession  of 
picture  postcards  from  Caudebec,  Rouen,  and  other 
French  towns  and  villages,  none  of  which  contained 
a  reference  to  any  home-coming.  But  in  one  of 
them  he  said  that  any  letters  addressed  to  Red- 
cliffe Road  would  be  forwarded  to  his  next  address 
by  the  devoted  Polly. 

And,  by  the  bye — said  Bristles  in  a  postscript — 
that  good  soul  would  jump  for  joy  if  you  found  time 
to  go  and  see  her. 

[334] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

That  suggestion  of  a  visit  to  Polly  came  one  day 
when  Nick  was  feeling  very  **down."  Beauty  had 
gone  off  for  a  motor  drive  to  Brighton  with  ''Baby'' 
Burpham  and  Kitty  and  Amos  Rosenbaum,  and  she 
had  been  very  angry  with  him  because  he  had 
stubbornly  declined  to  join  the  party.  His  refusal 
had  led  to  the  first  quarrel  which  Nick  had  had 
with  his  mother,  and  he  had  been  astounded  by  the 
passion  into  which  she  had  flown  when  he  persisted 
quietly  in  his  desire  to  stay  behind  and  work. 

"You  think  more  of  your  precious  work  than  you 
do  of  me!"  cried  Beauty.  "It  is  hateful  of  you. 
Surely  you  can  put  your  work  on  one  side  for  once 
to  give  me  a  little  pleasure!" 

"I  am  always  putting  my  work  on  one  side,"  said 
Nick.  "So  much  so  that  I  am  spoiling  all  my 
chances  in  the  Schools.  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
make  up  for  all  this  lost  time." 

"There  you  are !"  said  Beauty.  "You  are  always 
talking  about  your  lost  time,  as  if  you  begrudged 
every  minute  you  spent  with  me." 

"That  is  unfair,  mother!"  said  Nick,  bending 
down  to  kiss  his  mother's  hand. 

She  drew  it  away  quickly. 

"You  don't  love  me  a  little  bit." 

"I  love  you  too  much.  I  have  given  up  all  my 
ambitions  for  your  sake.  Beauty." 

His  voice  broke  a  little.  This  confession  meant 
[335] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

very  much  to  him,  for  his  ambition  had  been  a  high 
ideal,  and  it  lay  broken  at  Beauty's  feet. 

"li  you  are  a  little  bit  sincere  you  will  come  down 
to  Brighton  with  us.  Kitty  will  think  it  very  strange 
if  you  don't  come.  You  are  always  backing  out 
of  things  now.     She  thinks  you  avoid  her." 

"I  do  avoid  her,"  said  Nick  quietly.  *'She  is  very 
dangerous." 

Then  he  spoke  with  sudden  fire. 

"The  whole  crowd  is  dangerous,  mother,  I  wish 
to  goodness  you  would  break  with  them.  That  fel- 
low Rosenbaum  is  a  poisonous  wretch,  and  Bur- 
pham  is  much  too  free  and  easy  with  you.  There 
is  not  a  moral  between  them.  I  hate  the  pack  of 
'em." 

"They  are  my  friends,"  said  Beauty.  "They  have 
been  loyal  to  me  through  thick  and  thin.  If  you 
don't  Tike  them,  Nick,  3^ou  must  do  the  other  thing. 
See?" 

"I  will  do  the  other  thing,"  said  Nick,  very 
coolly. 

But  he  did  not  feel  at  all  cool  when  Beauty  walked 
straight  out  of  the  studio  with  a  very  white  and 
angry  face.  He  felt  hot  all  over,  and  cursed  himself 
for  having  been  bad-tempered  and  obstinate. 
Beauty  still  held  him  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand. 
Her  anger  hurt  him  frightfully.  And  when  she  had 
gone  he  could  not  work.  His  nerves  were  on  edge. 
His  hand  trembled.  He  could  not  concentrate  his 
[336] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

mind.  In  his  attempt  to  work  he  was  wasting  time 
just  as  much  as  if  he  had  gone  on  the  motor-drive 
to  Brighton.  At  last  he  gave  up  the  attempt  as  a 
bad  job,  and,  catching  sight  of  the  postcard  received 
from  his  father  that  morning,  decided  to  call  round 
on  Polly,  as  the  postscript  suggested.  It  was  a  long 
time  since  he  had  seen  the  old  servant  who  had 
nursed  him  as  a  baby,  who  had  been  his  foster- 
mother  in  boyhood,  and  who  had  given  him  her 
purse  when  he  started  out  for  London. 

When  she  opened  the  door  to  him  at  the  house  in 
Redcliffe  Road,  the  joy  that  suddenly  illumined  her 
plain  old  face,  the  little  squeals  of  gladness  she  gave 
at  the  sight  of  him,  and  the  way  in  which  she  flung 
her  arms  about  him  as  soon  as  he  had  stepped  inside 
the  hall,  rewarded  him  for  his  visit,  and  cured  his 
melancholy.  He  had  to  laugh  at  her  exageerated 
expressions  of  delight  and  to  laugh  again  when  cling- 
ing to  his  hand  she  fairly  danced  with  him  into  the 
sitting-room. 

"Oh,  my  poppet!  Oh,  my  dear  Master  Nick! 
This  is  a  sight  for  sore  eyes!" 

Then  she  wept  for  sheer  joy,  and  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  laughed  at  her  own  tearfulness,  and  was  amazed 
at  the  way  In  which  her  *'boy"  had  grown  into  man- 
hood. After  her  first  transports  had  subsided,  she 
bustled  away  to  get  tea,  and  left  Nick  alone  for  a 
while  in  the  sitting-room.  Everything  in  the  room 
was  a  reminder  of  his  old  life  when  he  and  Bristles 
[337] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

had  been  boy  and  man  together,  as  the  best  of  com- 
rades. There  was  the  gate-leg  table  on  which  his 
father  had  written  his  novels,  at  which  Nick  him- 
self had  sat  poring  over  his  lesson  books  or  touch- 
ing up  his  sketches.  There  was  the  grandfather's 
clock  which  had  ticked  off  the  years  of  his  life  since 
his  first  breath  in  the  world.  And  everywhere  there 
were  little  signs  of  himself,  arranged  about  the  room 
as  though  his  father  had  desired  to  crowd  these  re- 
membrances about  him;  a  model  boat  which  he  had 
made  with  the  old  "Admiral,"  a  pile  of  his  early 
sketch  books,  a  portrait  of  his  father,  drawn  in 
crayons — a  queer,  distorted  likeness  now  that  he  saw 
it  after  a  lapse  of  time — water-color  sketches  and 
pencil  sketches  of  scenes  in  and  around  Barhampton, 
and  the  pencil  box  which  had  been  a  birthday  g^ft 
from  Mary  Lavenham. 

Nick  stared  at  these  things  with  a  sense  of  sad- 
ness, touched  with  remorse.  His  father  loved  him 
with  a  great  love.  Here  in  this  little  room  were 
a  thousand  evidences  of  that  fatherly  affection.  But 
by  the  damnable  irony  of  fate  Nick  had  been  forced 
to  abandon  the  man  who  had  cherished  all  these 
tokens  of  their  comradeship.  He  had  left  him  alone, 
twice  deserted,  by  son  as  well  as  by  wife.  Now  in 
this  house  he  was  an  intruder.  He  was  no  longer 
a  part  of  his  father's  home  life.  He  had  sneaked 
round  to  visit  Polly  in  his  father's  absence.  The 
pitiful  tragedy  of  it! 

[338] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

Over  the  tea-table  Polly  was  a  cheerful  gossip. 
Yet,  beneath  her  cheerfulness  there  was  a  hint  of 
trouble.  Now  and  again  Nick  caught  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him  with  a  queer  wistfulness,  and  every  now 
and  then,  between  her  tales  of  the  "move"  and  her 
quarrels  with  Barhampton  tradespeople,  she  heaved 
a  deep  sigh.  Finally,  when  Nick  refused  a  fifth 
cup  of  tea,  she  revealed  the  thought  which  had  been 
worrying  her,  and  faltered  out  with  it. 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,  ain't  you  goin'  to  live  with 
your  poor  Pa  no  more?" 

Nick  did  not  know  what  to  answer  her.  He  did 
not  know  how  far  this  faithful  old  servant  had 
learned  the  truth  of  things. 

He  told  her  the  truth. 

"I  have  found  Beauty  again,  Polly.  It  makes  it 
— awkward.    Devilish  awkward." 

Polly  was  not  so  surprised  as  he  had  imagined. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I  always  knew  it  must  come 
to  that.  A  boy  will  search  the  world  for  his  Ma. 
It's  nature." 

Then  she  wept  a  little  at  the  thought  of  Beauty. 

"I  used  to  love  every  hair  on  the  poor  darling's 
head.  But  she  was  that  wilful.  Oh,  dearie  me,  she 
would  never  listen  to  a  warning  word,  and  would 
fly  into  a  temper  at  the  least  little  thing.  What  your 
poor  Pa  suffered  with  her  there's  no  telling.  And 
as  patient  with  her  as  a  lamb  he  was,  bless  his 
heart." 

[339] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

She  put  her  arms  down  on  the  table  and  sobbed, 
so  that  Nick  was  horribly  embarrassed. 

"Don't!"  he  said.  "Don't,  Polly.  It  doesn't  do 
any  good." 

"I  can't  'elp  it,  Master  Nick.  I  really  can't  'elp 
it!'*  sobbed  Polly.  "What  ever  is  a-going  to  be- 
come of  your  dear  Pa?  He's  as  miserable  without 
you  as  a  cat  without  kittens.  'E  wanders  about  as 
though  'is  'eart  'ad  broken,  that  lonely  and  miserable. 
And  'e  was  looking  forward  to  living  with  you  again 
like  a  man  eager  for  his  new-wed  wife.  Now 
Beauty  takes  you  away  and  spoils  everything.  If 
only  you  'adn't  come  acrost  'er  again!" 

Nick  groaned. 

"Let's  talk  about  something  else,"  he  said.  "Let's 
make  the  best  of  things  as  far  as  we  can,  Polly. 
Tell  me  some  more  news." 

It  was  just  before  he  was  going  that  Polly  told 
him  a  piece  of  news  which  made  his  heart  jump 
and  put  a  bright  light  in  his  eyes. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Master  Nick,  that  I  met 
a  friend  of  yours  the  other  day,  and  living  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  this  very  'ouse." 

"What  friend?" 

"Why,  that  young  lady  who  came  to  Barhampton 
in  her  pretty  frocks.     Miss  Joan  I  mean." 

"Joan  Darracott!" 

"Ay,  that's  the  name.  You  would  hardly  know 
[340] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

her  now,  she's  grown  so  tall  and  fine.  Like  one  ei 
them  fashion-plates  in  the  ladies'  papers." 

'It's  funny  I've  never  met  her,"  said  Nick,  hid- 
ing his  excitement  from  the  watchful  eyes  of  Polly. 

But  it  was  funnier  still  that  he  met  her  within 
five  minutes  of  saying  good-by  to  the  old  servant 
who  was  loathe  to  let  him  go,  and  who  hugged  him 
again  in  the  hall  before  opening  the  front  door. 

He  was  strolling  along  rather  slowly  toward  the 
Fulham  Road  when  he  collided  slightly  with  a  girl 
who  stepped  out  of  a  bun-shop.  He  raised  his  soft 
felt  hat,  murmured  an  apology,  and  passed  on,  when 
the  girl  gave  a  little  cry  of  astonishment. 

"Nick!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  faced  her,  and  saw  that 
this  tall  girl  with  fair  hair  coiled  beneath  a  broad 
straw  hat  and  in  a  muslin  dress  which  the  breeze 
blew  against  her  legs,  was  the  girl  for  whom  he  had 
often  searched  among  the  faces  of  the  London 
crowds. 

"Joan!" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  and  laughed. 

"Good  gracious !  You've  changed  yourself  again. 
You're  quite  a  different  kind  of  Nick  from  the 
bronzed  boy  of  Barhampton." 

"And  you !"  said  Nick. 

He  stared  at  her  as  though  she  were  some  picture 
drawn  by  a  master's  hand,  and  there  was  something 
[  341  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

in  this  look  of  admiration  which  made  her  smile  self- 
consciously, while  her  face  flushed  a  little. 

"How  do  you  find  me?"  she  asked,  rather 
roguishly. 

"I  find  you  wonderful,"  said  Nick. 

She  seemed  to  him  more  wonderful  than  when  she 
had  run  bare-legged  races  with  him  along  the  sands, 
and  when  she  had  played  the  mermaid  outside  the 
hole  in  the  rocks,  and  when  she  had  sat  with  him 
In  the  cave,  with  her  knees  tucked  up,  gazing  out 
at  the  wide  sea  strewn  with  rose-petals  in  the  light 
of  the  sinking  sun.  She  had  been  wonderful  then, 
touched  with  enchantment,  like  a  fairy  creature. 
But  now  she  had  grown  in  wonder,  so  that  his  spirit 
was  abashed  before  this  elegant  young  lady,  whose 
beauty  was  as  exquisite  as  a  portrait  by  Romney. 

"You  mustn't  stare  at  me  like  that,"  said  Joan. 
"People  will  think  there  is  something  queer  about 
me. 

"So  there  is,"  said  Nick.  "It's  the  queerest  thing 
in  the  world  to  find  you  grown  up  into  a  grand 
lady." 

He  stared  down  at  his  own  shabbiness. 

"You  see  I  am  still  in  rags.  You  will  be  ashamed 
of  me  again." 

"Oh,  you  look  all  right,"  said  Joan. 

She  did  not  tell  him  he  looked  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  that  his  soft  felt  hat  and  gray  flannel  suit  gave 
him  an  air  of  artistic  distinction  which  she  found 
[342] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

rather  pleasant  and  attractive.  Besides,  she  had  a 
soft  place  in  her  heart  for  the  memory  of  the  boy 
whose  adoration  had  not  been  hidden  from  her  on 
the  sands  of  Barhampton.  It  is  true  that  she  had 
(never  written  to  him — she  hated  letter  writing — and 
it  is  true  that  other  interests  had  crowded  her  mind, 
but  often  she  had  given  just  a  passing  thought  to 
that  holiday  by  the  sea  when  she  and  Nick  had  been 
Adam  and  Eve,  alone  in  a  lonely  world. 

With  her  gracious  permission  Nick  walked  with 
her  in  the  Chelsea  Gardens,  and  she  was  very  kind 
to  him,  and  did  not  seem  to  mind  a  bit  when  people 
turned  round,  now  and  then,  to  look  after  the  tall 
and  pretty  girl  who  was  chatting  to  a  shabby  young 
man  in  a  dump  hat.  She  asked  him  a  score  of 
questions — where  was  he  living?  What  was  he 
doing?  Did  he  ever  go  to  dances?  How  did  he 
amuse  himself  ?  Was  he  making  any  money  ? — and 
though  she  did  not  listen  to  all  his  answers,  but  in- 
terrupted them  to  ask  some  more  questions,  she 
seemed  interested  to  know  that  he  was  an  art  stu- 
dent in  Chelsea,  and  shared  a  studio  with  another 
young  man,  and  led  an  independent  life. 

"Well  done,  Nick!"  she  said,  with  a  slightly 
oatronizing  air,  fully  justified  in  so  pretty  a  girl  who 
condescends  to  be  interested  in  the  fortunes  of  a 
shabby  young  man.  "One  of  these  days  I  must  come 
to  visit  your  studio.  It  would  be  quite  an  adven- 
ture." 

[343] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

*^Come  now!"  said  Nick.     "I  will  boil  a 
for  you,  and  make  some  tea." 

But  she  laughed  at  this  abrupt  invitation,  ani 
said,  "Some  other  day,  if  mother  does  not  cut  up 
rough." 

"Why  should  she  cut  up  rough?" 

"Because  the  leopard  cannot  change  its  spots,  nor 
mothers  their  fads  and  fancies.  Now  that  I  am  old 
enough  to  look  after  myself  mother  is  always 
thrusting  the  proprieties  down  my  throat.  However, 
I  am  becoming  more  independent." 

She  put  her  hand  on  Nick's  arm,  and  said,  with 
a  little  thrill  of  excitement  in  her  voice: 

"What  do  you  think !  I  am  earning  my  own  liv- 
ing.    Not  bad,  eh?" 

"Good  Lord!  I  can't  believe  it!"  said  Nick,  as 
though  the  mere  thought  of  a  girl  like  Joan  earning 
her  own  living  were  a  moral  outrage. 

"It's  a  fact.  I  am  the  typist-secretary  of  an 
anthropoid  ape." 

"Good  God !"  said  Nick,  horribly  startled.  "How 
^o  you  make  that  out?" 

"It  doesn't  want  any  making  out,"  said  Joan.  "It's 
a  most  obvious  fact.  He's  a  bald-headed  old  ape 
with  enormous  eyebrows  and  a  shaggy  white  beard, 
and  long  arms,  and  legs  too  short  for  his  body,  and 
he  lives  entirely  on  a  fruitarian  diet,  and  is  writing 
a  book  on  'Nut  Diet  and  Social  Morality.'  He's  a 
[344] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

Professor  with  a  lot  of  letters  after  his  name,  which 
is  Wllkins." 

''And  what  do  you  do  for  him?"  asked  Nick. 

''Oh,  I  type  all  his  letters  to  the  vegetarian  societies 
who  want  him  to  address  their  meetings,  and  to 
members  of  Parliament  who  are  pledged  to  support 
a  fruit  diet,  and  to  all  sorts  of  cranks  who  have 
abandoned  meat  and  morality." 

"I  don't  think  it  is  the  sort  of  work  you  should 
do,"  said  Nick.  "Is  the  fellow  all  right  in  his 
head?^' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Joan  thoughtfully.  "He 
makes  all  sorts  of  grimaces  at  me,  which  I  think 
he  imagines  to  be  friendly  smiles  .  .  .  and  he 
urges  upon  me  the  moral  duty  of  dispensing  with 
corsets  and  boots.  He  is  an  apostle  of  loose-fitting 
garments  and  sandals,  among  other  things.  Still, 
he  is  quite  harmless,  and  pays  me  a  guinea  a  week." 

"I  should  like  to  punch  his  blooming  old  head  for 
him,"  said  Nick.  "Surely  you  can  get  a  better  job 
than  that !" 

Joan  Darracott  glanced  round  at  Nick's  face,  and 
smiled  at  its  angry  look. 

"To  be  quite  honest,  I  loathe  all  jobs.  But  any- 
thing is  better  than  a  fretful  mother.  Even  an  an- 
thropoid ape.  You  see,  no  rich  young  man  has  come 
along  to  offer  me  his  hand  and  heart  and  well- 
filled  purse.  A  pity,  isn't  it?" 
[  345  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

Nick  was  silent.  It  was  quite  a  little  time  before 
he  said,  in  a  hesitating  way : 

"One  of  these  days  I  hope  to  earn  a  bit  of  money 
— if  I  have  any  luck." 

Joan  Darracott  found  his  words  amusing. 

"Artists  don't  earn  much  money,"  she  said. 
"They  are  a  poverty-stricken  crowd  as  a  rule.  And 
they  have  to  wait  such  a  long  time  before  they  make 
a  name  for  themselves,  don't  they  ?" 

"Not  always.    Besides     ..." 

"Yes?"  said  Joan,  quizzing  him  a  little. 

"Poverty  isn't  such  a  frightful  thing,  is  it?  I 
know  one  or  two  fellows  who  have  married  on  next 
to  nothing,  and  they  seem  as  jolly  as  the  day  is 
long." 

"Oh,  that's  a  pose,"  said  Joan.  "Poverty  is  only 
another  name  for  misery.  I  have  seen  such  a  lot 
of  it,  in  shabby-genteel  boarding-houses.  I  have 
heard  mother's  tales  of  her  early  married  life.  Ugh ! 
The  squalor  of  it!    The  meanness  of  it!" 

She  shuddered  a  little,  and  then  laughed. 

"What  on  earth  are  we  talking  like  this  for?  It 
doesn't  matter  to  us,  does  it,  one  way  or  the  other?" 

"No,"  said  Nick,  "I  suppose  not." 

So  he  spoke,  though  he  knew  that  it  mattered  all 
the  world  to  him,  for  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
forget, -nor  one  whose  dreams  in  boyhood  vanish  at 
the  touch  of  manhood.  It  was  only  a  few  years  since 
he  had  thrilled  in  the  presence  of  this  girl,  and  since 
[346] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

she  had  put  a  spell  upon  him,  awakening  vague  de- 
sires, burning  hopes,  great  ambitions.  He  had  given 
his  love  to  her  then,  all  the  ardor  of  his  boy's  heart 
had  been  inflamed  by  her.  The  kiss  she  had  given 
him  when  she  said  good-by  one  day  on  the  other  side 
of  the  estuary  had  touched  his  lips  with  a  sacred 
fire  in  which  he  had  dedicated  himself  to  her.  And 
though  he  had  not  found  her  in  London,  the  thought 
of  her  had  remained  with  him  in  a  little  sanctuary 
which  sometimes  he  had  opened  with  a  worshipful 
mind. 

For  Nicholas  Barton  was  not  like  many  young 
men.  Not  for  his  happiness  some  fairy  at  his  birth 
had  "wished"  him  the  gift  of  loyalty  to  his  remem- 
brances. And  just  as  he  had  cherished  the  memory 
of  Beauty  through  all  the  years,  when  many  boys 
would  have  forgotten,  so  later  he  had  hidden  the 
thought  of  Joan  in  his  heart  so  that  it  could  not 
escape.  Now  at  this  meeting  again  his  nature  leaped 
to  her,  and  his  boy's  love  had  grown  unconsciously 
so  that  he  had  a  man's  love  ready  for  her  at  this 
new  meeting.  For  her  the  years  that  had  inter- 
vened between  their  comradeship  had  been  barren 
as  far  as  that  was  concerned.  She  picked  him  up 
again  just  as  she  had  let  him  go.  But  for  him  they 
had  been  years  of  growth,  during  which  his  ideal 
of  her  had  developed  with  his  own  development,  in 
body,  heart  and  soul. 

So  now,  when  he  parted  with  her  at  the  door  of 
[347] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

her  own  house  in  Elm  Park  Gardens,  he  was  eager 
for  their  next  meeting,  and  could  not  hide  his  eager- 
ness. Nor  could  he  hide  his  disappointment  when 
Joan  would  do  no  more  than  promise  that  ''if  she 
had  nothing  better  to  do"  she  might  possibly  call 
round  at  his  studio  one  day. 

To  his  great  joy  she  kept  this  promise,  and  came 
one  afternoon  when  he  had  given  up  hope  of  her. 
It  was  Jack  Comyns  who  opened  the  door  to  her, 
and  parleyed  with  her  on  the  threshold. 

* 'Nicholas  Barton  ?  Yes,  he's  here.  Inconvenient  ? 
Oh,  rather  not.    I'll  answer  for  that.    Do  come  in !" 

Comyns  who  had  gone  to  the  door  with  a  curse 
and  the  remark,  ''Another  of  those  confounded 
models!"  came  back  with  his  most  charming  pose, 
ushering  in  Joan  Darracott  as  though  she  were  a 
Princess. 

"Nick,  old  man,  a  lady  to  see  you.  I  must  apol- 
ogize for  being  in  the  way.'' 

He  smiled  in  his  cool,  superior  way  at  Joan  Dar- 
racott, and  said: 

*'Nick  and  I  share  studios  you  know.  It's  rather 
a  nuisance  sometimes,  especially  to  Nick.  But  of 
course  I  make  myself  scarce  when  I  am  not  wanted." 

He  strode  to  the  hat  peg,  as  though  prepared  to 
make  an  instant  departure,  but  Joan  laughed  a  little 
nervously,  and  said: 

"I  hope  you  won't  go  for  my  sake." 

"Oh,  thanks,"  said  Comyns,  "of  course  I  should 
[  348  ] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

like  to  stay — if  Nick  will  be  good  enough  to  intro- 
duce me." 

Nick  introduced  him,  though  deeply  embarrassed, 
and  highly  nervous  now  that  Joan  had  fulfilled  her 
promise.  He  wished  to  Heaven  that  he  had  Jack 
Comyns'  self-possession  and  easy  manners.  For  in 
less  than  two  minutes  Comyns  was  on  the  friendliest 
terms  with  Joan  Darracott,  and  was  already  ex- 
plaining that  he  led  a  "double  life"  and  had  escaped 
to  Chelsea  from  the  dull  respectability  of  Mayfair. 

"From  things  I  have  read,"  said  Joan,  "I  fancy 
you  exaggerate  its  respectability." 

Comyns  laughed  very  heartily  at  this  remark. 

"Oh,  I  know  Mayfair  and  morals  are  not  supposed 
to  go  together,  but  you  must  not  believe  what  you 
read  in  the  halfpenny  papers,  or  hear  in  sermons  by 
popular  preachers." 

"To  my  mind,"  said  Joan,  "Mayfair  must  be  a 
very  exciting  place,  because  there  people  live  in  the 
lap  of  luxury  and  indulge  in  all  the  pleasures  which 
make  up  the  fun  of  life." 

"Oh,  my  dear  lady !"  said  Comyns,  pretending  to 
be  shocked  by  these  views,  "surely  you  do  not  think 
that  luxury  produces  the  fun  of  life?" 

"Certainly!"  said  Joan.  "There's  no  fun  at  all 
in  wanting  things  which  you  can't  have." 

Comyns  disputed  the  point,  persuasively,  wittily. 
It  was  the  very  point  he  loved  best  to  dispute,  be- 
cause it  gave  him  a  chance  of  revealing  his  elaborate 
[349] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

views  on  the  splendid  joy  of  plain  living  and  high 
thinking.  For  a  young  man  immaculately  dressed 
— he  had  just  been  completing  his  afternoon  toilet 
— and  terribly  in  debt  to  all  the  tradesmen,  in  spite 
of  the  handsome  allowance  from  his  rich  father,  he 
held  a  most  austere  philosophy — and  Joan  was  quite 
a  match  for  the  philosopher. 

While  the  argument  was  proceeding,  Nick  boiled 
the  kettle  and  made  some  tea.  But  it  was  Comyns 
who  did  the  honors  of  the  table,  and  who,  half  way 
through  the  meal,  ordered  Nick  to  sally  forth  and 
buy  some  fancy  pastries  at  a  shop  round  the  corner. 
When  Nick  returned  Joan  and  Comyns  were  laugh- 
ing very  gaily  at  a  joke  which  was  not  explained 
to  him.  It  was  a  question  of  two's  company  and 
three's  none,  and  Nick  was  the  odd  man  out.  Yet 
he  was  grateful  to  Comyns  for  showing  himself  at 
his  best  and  making  the  tea-party  a  success  as  far 
as  Joan  was  concerned.  At  least  upon  leaving  she 
assured  the  two  friends  that  she  had  enjoyed  herself 
immensely,  as  it  was  such  a  relief  from  the  society 
of  the  anthropoid  ape  to  whom  she  must  now  return. 

Nick  took  her  back  to  the  residence  of  that  Pro- 
fessorial beast,  and  on  the  way,  which  was  a  path  of 
pleasure  to  him,  launched  into  generous  praise  of  his 
friend,  about  whom  Joan  asked  one  or  two  questions. 

"He  has  a  heart  of  gold,"  said  Nick. 

Joan  seemed  sceptical. 

"A  little  bit  affected,  isn't  he?"  she  asked. 
[  350  ] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

"Oh,  that's  only  part  of  his  charm,"  said  Nick. 
"He  adopts  a  pose  because  he  has  sucb.  a  sense  of 
humor.     He  loves  to  laugh  at  himself." 

"Well,  that's  a  saving  grace,"  Joan  admitted. 
But  she  held  out  that  Comyns  was  not  quite  sincere. 

Comyns  himself  v^as  in  a  good  humor  when  Nick 
came  back. 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  friend,  old  man.  A 
charming  girl,  and  not  a  bit  of  nonsense  about  her." 

Then  he  slapped  Nick  on  the  back  and  said : 

"Sly  old  dog !  No  wonder  you  are  dreamy  some- 
times! Miss  Darracott  is  a  dream  for  any  fellow 
with  a  soul  about  him." 

Nick  was  serious. 

"Don't  chaff  too  much,"  he  said.  "I  hate  all  that 
kind  of  thing.    I  mean — a  man's  dream  is  sacred." 

Comyns  grinned  at  him. 

"It's  like  that,  is  it?  All  right,  old  man.  Enough 
said." 

He  only  asked  one  other  question.  It  was  Joan 
Darracott's  address. 

That  house  in  Elm  Park  Gardens  where  Joan  lived 
with  her  mother  became  to  Nick  his  house  of  dreams. 
Often  before  going  to  bed  he  strolled  that  way,  to 
stand  a  little  while  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
beyond  the  pool  of  light  below  the  lamp-post,  to  gaze 
up  at  Joan's  bedroom  window.  He  knew  which 
room  it  was — the  one  above  the  porch — and  some- 
times by  good  luck  he  saw  her  shadow  on  the  blind, 
[351] 


BEAUTY  AKD  NICK 

and  always  in  imagination  he  saw  the  beauty  of  her 
face  there,  which  no  blind  could  shut  out  from  his 
mental  vision.  Like  all  lovers  who  have  ever  lived, 
his  heart  quickened  at  the  thought  of  her,  his  brain 
was  on  fire  with  the  strange  fever  of  love,  and  life 
itself  seemed  to  him  more  wonderful,  more  mysteri- 
ous, more  desirable  because  of  one  girl-woman  whose 
pretty  face  seemed  haunted  with  all  the  lovehness 
of  life,  whose  voice  contained  the  music  of  life, 
whose  slightest  touch  thrilled  him  with  a  vibration 
like  that  which  holds  the  world  together  in  the 
dancing  atoms  of  its  matter.  .  .  .  Yet  Joan 
Darracott  was  like  many  other  girls  with  pretty  faces 
and  sparkling  eyes.  She  had  no  unusual  qualities, 
and  no  special  magic — except  for  Nicholas  Barton. 
At  this  time  he  had  obtained  all  that  he  had  most 
desired  in  his  boyhood — Beauty  and  Joan.  But 
curiously,  so  strange  are  the  ways  of  life,  he  was  not 
as  happy  as  he  should  have  been  by  the  fulfilment 
of  his  hopes.  Indeed,  looking  back  to  those  days, 
Nicholas  confesses  to  a  feverish,  nerve-racking,  soul- 
disturbing  time,  not  pleasant  in  recollection.  He 
seemed  to  be  living  at  too  hot  a  pace,  and  to  get 
no  peace  of  mind  or  body.  For  some  months  he 
thrust  his  work  almost  entirely  on  one  side,  though 
the  call  of  art  was  always  in  his  ears,  reproachful, 
plaintive,  or  commanding.  The  other  Beauty  still 
made  continual  demands  upon  his  time,  and  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  refuse  her. 
[352] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

Every  night  now  he  took  her  to  the  theatre  in  her 
hired  brougham,  and  then  called  to  fetch  her  home 
again — to  that  suite  in  a  great  hotel  which  she  called 
**home"  unconscious  of  irony — where  on  most  nights 
Rosenbaum  was  waiting  for  her,  or  Baby  Burpham, 
or  other  men  who  came  to  play  cards  or  to  have 
supper,  until  sometimes  the  light  of  dawn  glimmered 
through  the  window  blinds.  Nick  walked  home 
alone,  his  brain  excited  by  the  light  and  heat,  by 
the  laughter  of  his  mother,  by  her  teasing  and  her 
light-hearted  frivolity,  by  strange  doubts  and  dread- 
ful suspicions  that  underneath  the  gaiety  in  her 
rooms  there  lurked  ugly  perils,  and  that  in  the  scent 
of  the  flowers  in  her  rooms,  in  that  heated  atmos- 
phere there  was  some  subtle  and  destroying  poison. 

For  some  reason  Beauty  had  become  more  emo- 
tional of  late.  Her  nerves  seemed  jangled.  She 
was  quickly  elated,  and  just  as  quickly  depressed. 
She  flew  into  tempers  even  with  Nick,  for  no  ap- 
parent reason,  and  then  petted  him  and  fondled  him, 
as  though  to  make  amends.  More  than  once  he  saw 
the  traces  of  tears  on  her  face,  and  once  in  a  passion- 
ate scene  when  he  was  alone  with  her  she  flung 
herself  down  on  to  her  sofa  and  cried  out  that  she 
was  a  vile  creature  and  ought  to  be  drowned,  wailing 
like  a  woman  in  agony  of  soul.  He  went  down  on 
his  knees  beside  her,  and  begged  her  to  tell  him  her 
trouble,  but  in  a  little  while  she  laughed  as  though 
nothing  had  troubled  her,  and  that  very  afternoon 
[353  1 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

was  In  such  gay  spirits  that  she  surprised  even  Kitty 
Burpham,  who  had  come  into  tea. 

Nick  did  not  tell  her  about  Joan.  Yet  it  was 
not  easy  to  hide  his  secret,  for  she  was  inquisitive 
about  the  hours  he  spent  away  from  her,  He  had 
to  dodge  her  questions  when  he  had  taken  Joan  to 
a  matinee,  and  when  one  afternoon — unforgettable 
in  its  glory — he  had  rowed  her  on  the  Serpentine, 
where  she  shaded  the  sun  from  her  face  under  a  lace 
parasol,  but  had  not  hidden  her  eyes  from  him,  and 
when  she  lay  at  his  feet  in  the  boat,  her  head  pil- 
lowed on  a  scarlet  cushion,  in  the  deep  shadow  of 
an  overhanging  tree.  That  afternoon  she  had  been 
in  her  most  winning  nrood,  kind  and  gracious  and 
not  teasing. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here,"  she  said,  "you  and  I,  Nick, 
as  we  used  to  sit  in  the  rock  cave  at  Barhampton. 
Tell  me  some  more  of  your  fairy-tales." 

He  had  told  her  a  fairy-tale  about  a  Princess  and 
a  beggarman,  and  she  had  listened  with  a  little  smile 
about  her  lips.  The  story  ended  with  a  golden  kiss 
which  the  Princess  gave  the  beggarman,  so  that  al- 
ways after  that  his  rags  seemed  to  him  like  purple 
and  fine  linen,  and  his  black  bread  like  choicest 
viands,  and  all  his  misery  like  unclouded  joy. 

"Joan,"  said  Nick,  "there  is  not  a  boat  in  sight, 
and  we  are  alone  here  in  the  shadow  of  the  tree. 
If  I  stoop  down  to  you  will  you  give  me  a  goMen 
kiss?" 

[354] 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

"You  must  stoop  low,  then,"  said  Joan,  "because 
I  am  too  lazy  to  move." 

He  stooped  low  and  kissed  her,  and  she  pulled  his 
head  down  lower  still  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

But  she  seemed  a  little  frightened  after  that,  and 
sat  up  in  the  boat,  and  said,  "I  shan't  do  that  again. 
It  isn't  playing  the  game.  Some  people  seem  to 
think  such  a  lot  of  a-  kiss." 

"I  think  all  the  world  of  it,"  said  Nick. 

She  pleaded  with  him  not  to  think  too  much  of  it 

"I  meant  nothing  by  it,  Nick.    Nothing  at  all." 

She  did  not  let  him  kiss  her  again  after  that  after- 
noon in  the  boat,  and  Nick  was  troubled  because  she 
seemed  to  draw  away  from  him  a  little,  and  put  on 
a  mask  of  satire  to  hide  herself  from  him,  making 
fun  of  his  sentiment,  and  laughing  at  him  when  he 
was  in  a  tender  mood.  Yet  she  came  to  the  studio 
several  times,  and  there  were  delightful  tea-parties 
when  Comyns,  who  did  not  go  out  so  much,  had 
put  on  his  best  clothes  and  his  best  behavior  in  case 
she  might  favor  them  with  a  visit.  But  it  was  dis- 
tressing to  Nick  that  she  could  never  tell  him  be- 
forehand the  time  of  her  visit,  her  hours  with  the 
anthropoid  ape  being  so  Irregular,  so  that  it  hap- 
pened several  times  that  he  had  rushed  off  to  see 
Beauty  just  before  she  came,  and  returned  just  as 
she  had  gone.  Comyns  explained  that  she  had 
waited  as  long  as  she  could  to  see  him  and  was  im- 
mensely disappointed  when  he  did  not  come  back. 
[355] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

He  also  explained  that  he  had  done  his  best  to  en- 
tertain her,  and  to  keep  her  talking  for  a  good  while, 
in  order  that  Nick  might  return  before  she  had  gone. 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  said  Nick.  ''You  are  the  best 
of  pals." 

''That's  all  right,  old  man,"  said  Comyns.  "Don't 
mention  it." 

Once"Nick  had  the  luck  to  get  back  to  the  studio 
before  Joan  had  given  up  waiting  for  him.  She  had 
stayed  much  later  than  usual,  and  it  was  nearly 
eight  o'clock.  Indeed,  when  Nick  opened  the  door 
the  studio  was  almost  in  darkness,  and  for  a  moment 
he  did  not  see  the  figures  of  Joan  and  Comyns  sitting 
by  the  hearthside  where  the  fire  had  burned  low. 
They  saw  him  first,  and  Joan  sprang  up  with  a  little 
cry. 

"Is  that  you,  Nick?" 

Comyns  got  up  slowly  from  the  coal  scuttle  on 
which  he  had  been  sitting  with  his  knees  tucked  up. 
He  laughed  rather  nervously,  and  said: 

"What  a  long  time  you  have  been,  old  man !  We 
have  been  waiting  and  waiting  for  you." 

"You  might  have  had  a  light  on  the  scene,"  said 
Nick.    "It's  like  coming  into  a  tomb." 

He  struck  a  match  and  lighted  the  gas,  and  then 
was  surprised  to  see  that  Joan  looked  rather  flushed, 
and  that  her  eyes  seemed  to  shine  like  stars.  He 
had  never  seen  her  looking  quite  so  beautiful.  It 
seemed  as  if  there  were  a  kind  of  glamor  about 
[356I 


THE  WONDERFUL  LADY 

her  face  like  a  girl  touched  with  some  enchantment. 

"You  look  strange  this  evening,  Joan,"  said  Nick, 
gazing  at  her.     **Has  anything  happened  to  you?" 

''Happened  ?"  said  Joan.  ''What  could  have  hap- 
pened ?" 

Her  voice  was  tremulous,  and  she  laughed  in  a 
low  voice,  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  her  hat. 

"I  have  been  sitting  in  this  gloomy  old  studio, 
waiting  for  you  to  come  back.  It's  a  funny  thing! 
You're  always  out  now  when  I  come.  I  believe  you 
deliberately  avoid  me." 

"It's  my  most  damnable  ill-luck,"  said  Nick. 

He  walked  to  Elm  Park  Gardens  with  her,  and 
she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm,  so  that  at 
her  touch  he  seemed  to  be  walking  on  air.  But  she 
was  very  silent,  and  left  him  to  do  all  the  talking 
until  she  interrupted  him  abruptly  by  a  queer  ques- 
tion. 

"Do  you  think  a  girl  can  be  great  friends  with  a 
man  without  meaning  anything — serious?  I  mean 
— is  it  playing  the  game  and  all  that?" 

Nick  puzzled  over  her  meaning.  He  could  not 
quite  see  the  drift  of  it. 

"It  depends  on  the  girl,  and  it  depends  on  the 
man,"  he  said  in  a  non-committal  way. 

Joan  laughed  at  that. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  some  men  are  so  emo- 
tional. ...  It  must  be  all  or  nothing  with 
them." 

[357] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

She  turned  to  Nick,  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"Nick,  you  are  awfully  emotional.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  be.  I  am  afraid  you  will  get — hurt — one 
of  these  days." 

"Hurt?"  said  Nick. 

He  laughed,  but  with  a  queer  sound  in  his  voice. 

"As  long  as  you  are  kind  to  me,  Joan." 

They  were  outside  her  gate  now,  and  she  took  his 
hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"You  have  been  awfully  kind  to  me,  Nick.  I 
shan't  forget  that.  .  .  .  But  you  must  not  ex- 
pect too  much  of  me.  I'm  a  queer  kind  of  creature. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  said  Nick.  "I  know  that  you  are — 
splendid." 

"Foolish  old  Nick." 

She  ran  up  the  steps,  and  he  heard  her  laugh  as 
she  rang  the  bell  and  then  disappeared  into  the  tall 
and  gloomy  house. 

Nick  walked  home  slowly,  pondering  over  Joan's 
queer  words.  Not  yet  could  he  find  the  meaning  of 
them.  He  only  knew  that  this  girl  held  his  heart 
in  her  hands,  and  that  she  could  do  what  she  liked 
with  it. 


[358 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

It  was  of  course  a  hard  knock  to  Nicholas  Barton 
when  he  failed  to  win  the  Gold  Medal  of  the  Acad- 
emy Schools  and  saw  his  name  low  down  on  the 
list  of  competitors.  It  was  not  less  hard  because  he 
had  anticipated  this  result;  knowing  that  his  work 
for  the  past  six  months  had  been  practically  at  a 
standstill,  and  that  he  had  lost  his  nerve  and  his  skill 
of  hand  and  eye.  But  it  was  the  plain  fact  of  failure, 
and  the  knock-out  blow  to  his  ambition.  It  was  a 
sorry  reminder  of  the  dreams  and  hopes  with  which 
he  had  come  to  London,  now  shattered  like  a  house 
of  cards,  and  it  convicted  him  of  something  like 
treachery  to  those  good  friends  who  had  staked  their 
money  on  his  success.  It  added  gall  to  his  bitter- 
ness when  he  received  telegrams  from  Mary  Laven- 
ham  and  Edward  Frampton.  bidding  him  be  of  good 
cheer.  "Better  luck  npct  time,"  said  Mary  Laven- 
ham.  "We  learn  ^  our  defeats,"  said  Edward 
Frampton.    No  word  came  from  his  father. 

Well,  that  was  the  end  of  one  great  dream,  and 
the  pill  of  failure  was  most  bitter  to  his  mouth  be- 
cause he  knew  that  he  could  have  tasted  the  sweet- 
ness of  success  If  he  had  not  frittered  away  his 
[359] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

chances  and  played  havoc  with  his  time.  His  masters 
six  months  ago  had  said,  "You  are  certain  of  the 
medal."  His  fellow  students  had  said,  "It's  yours 
already,  Barton.  We  can't  compete  with  you."  But 
six  months  had  altered  everything.  They  had 
jangled  his  nerves,  spoiled  his  working  hand, 
smashed  him  as  far  as  art  was  concerned.  For  Art 
demands  complete  allegiance,  absolute  loyalty,  and 
be  had  been  unfaithful  in  his  devotion,  being 
dragged  into  other  loyalties  calling  upon  his  emotion 
and  energies  and  spiritual  resources. 

"Never  mind,  old  man,"  said  Comyns.  "There  is 
no  reason  to  be  so  down-hearted.  After  all,  gold 
medal  or  no  gold  medal,  you've  got  the  right  stuff 
in  you.     You'll  win  through  all  right." 

"Fm  finished,"  said  Nick. 

"Finished  be  blowed !    You  haven't  begun  yet." 

Beauty  did  not  bother  about  her  son's  failure. 

"Drat  the  old  medal!"  she  said.  "Let's  go  and 
have  an  extra  special  lunch.  Half  a  bottle  of  hock 
will  make  you  see  everything  couleur  de  rose,  my 
dear." 

But  Nick  saw  red  instead  of  rosy  hues.  He  was 
savage  with  himself,  savage  with  fate,  even  a  little 
savage  with  his  mother  because  she  did  not  care  for 
his  success  or  failure.  She  cared  for  nothing  except 
the  immediate  moment.  There  were  times  when 
Nick  believed  that  she  cared  nothing  for  him,  or  for 
any  one  except  herself.  Yet,  having  thought  so,  he 
1  3K)j 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

reproached  himself,  especially  as  in  the  days  follow- 
ing his  disappointment  she  was  more  tender  than 
usual,  more  clinging,  more  anxious  to  be  with  him. 
He  could  not  quite  understand  the  emotional  affec- 
tion which  she  displayed  for  him  during  these  days. 
It  was  too  great  a  strain  upon  his  own  temperament. 

"You  know  I  love  you,  Nick,"  she  said  a  score 
of  times.     "Tell  me  that  you  know  I  love  you." 

"Of  course  I  know,"  said  Nick. 

"You  don't  think  I  am  a  wicked  woman,  do  you  ? 
You  have  seen  the  best  in  me.  I  am  not  all  bad, 
ami,  little  Nick?" 

"You  are  all  good,"  said  Nick,  not  with  absolute 
sincerity. 

She  pulled  his  head  down  and  played  with  his 
hair,  and  kissed  him,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
cheek. 

"You  will  never  think  badly  of  me,  will  you, 
Nick?  You  will  always  make  allowances,  won't 
you?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  allow  for,"  said  Nick  laugh- 
ing. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Beauty.  "There  must  always  be 
allowances  for  a  woman  like  me,  with  a  nature  like 
mine.  I  think  even  God  will  make  allowances. 
Funny  old  Gk)d!" 

Nick  wondered  what  crisis  was  happening  in  his 
mother's  life.  He  could  not  hide  from  himself  that 
something  was  happening.  For  she  had  some  secret 
trouble  which  excited  her,  which  made  her  terribly 

[361] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

despondent,  until  she  forced  herself  into  high  spirits 
beyond  the  bounds  of  a  natural  gaiety,  when  her 
laughter  was  rather  shrill  and  wild  and  her  eyes 
strangely  and  dangerously  bright. 

Then  suddenly,  after  her  bout  of  emotional  mother 
love,  she  began  to  avoid  him.  He  was  sure  of  that. 
The  telegrams  which  came  from  her  now  no  longer 
summoned  him  to  her  rooms,  but  made  excuses  for 
not  seeing  him. 

"I  have  a  headache  to-night.     Come  to-morrow." 

When  to-morrow  came  he  had  another  message 
from  her. 

"I  am  oif  to  Brighton  for  the  day.  I  will  see  you 
on  Monday.'' 

She  became  eager  for  motor-drives,  and  explained 
that  they  cured  the  headaches  which  now  afflicted 
her.  But  Nick  was  uneasy  when  he  heard  that 
''Baby"  Burpham  took  turns  with  Amos  Rosenbaum 
to  be  her  driver.  These  two  men  who  hated  each 
other  swallowed  their  hostility  in  order  to  keep  on 
friendly  terms  with  Beauty  and  it  seemed  that  she 
had  some  spell  over  them  which  made  them  slaves 
to  her,  though  they  were  sulky  and  sullen  with  her 
sometimes,  and  more  than  once,  even  in  Nick's  pres- 
ence, frankly  insolent. 

"Why  don't  you  play  a  straight  game  for  once  in 
your  life?"  asked  Rosenbaum  one  night  when  Beauty 
told  him  that  she  had  changed  her  mind  about  going 
to  Ascot  with  him  as  she  was  "fed-up"  with  his  so- 
ciety and  desired  a  change. 

[362] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

Beauty  laughed,  and  did  not  seem  offended.  But 
she  was  startled  when  Nick,  who  had  overheard  the 
remark,  suddenly  strode  over  to  Rosenbaum  with  a 
white  face  and  blazing  eyes  and  clenched  fist,  and 
said: 

"If  you  don't  apologize  for  those  words,  I  will 
knock  your  teeth  down  your  throat." 

He  spoke  the  words  loudly,  although  Kitty  Bur- 
pham  was  in  the  room.  He  did  not  see  Kitty  rise 
a  little  from  the  piano  stool  and  stare  across  the  in- 
strument with  a  queer  smile  about  her  lips,  and 
in  her  eyes  a  look  as  though  expecting  fun. 

Rosenbaum  twisted  his  moustache,  and  colored  up 
a  little.  But  his  Hps  curled  into  a  sneer,  and  his 
voice  was  very  cool  when  he  spoke. 

''What  the  devil  has  it  got  to  do  with  you?  I 
was  speaking  to  your  mother." 

Nick  faced  the  man,  and  a  tremor  passed  through 
his  body. 

"If  you  don't  apologize  now,  I  will  thrash  you." 

He  raised  his  fist  for  a  smashing  blow. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Rosenbaum  very  quickly.  He 
retreated  a  little  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  said : 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  brutal.  Your  mother 
knows  that  my  tongue  sometimes  gets  between  my 
teeth." 

He  laughed  nervously,  and  then  took  out  a  cig- 
arette and  tapped  it  on  the  mantelshelf. 

Kitty's  voice  came  across  the  piano. 

[363] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"In  another  moment  there  would  have  been  a  life- 
less corpse.  Oh,  Nick,  you  looked  splendid  in  your 
wrath.  Like  a  young  god.  What  a  pity  Rosenbaum 
is  a  coward  and  ate  his  words!  What  a  drama 
spoiled !" 

Rosenbaum  turned  round  savagely  at  her. 

"Shut  up!"  he  said. 

''Oh,  dear!  I  wish  everybody  wouldn't  be  so 
violent!"  said  Beauty.  ''Nick  darling,  you  have 
given  me  quite  a  turn." 

Kitty  Burpham  laughed  quite  gaily. 

"Wonderful  world !    Wonderful  people !" 

Then  her  husband  entered,  with  his  monocle 
screwed  in  his  eye  and  his  fat  smile  on  his  face. 
He  ignored  his  wife,  and  went  straight  over  to 
Beauty  and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"How  goes  it,  fair  lady?" 

"I'm  going  anyhow,"  said  Rosenbaum,  in  his  most 
sullen  way.  He  strode  out  of  the  room,  without 
saying  good-by. 

Baby  Burpham  raised  his  blonde  eyebrows  so  that 
his  monocle  fell. 

"Has  Rosy  got  the  hump  or  something?  Thank 
Heaven  for  that,  if  it  relieves  us  of  his  most  objec- 
tionable presence." 

"He  means  well,"  said  Beauty.  "He's  been  very 
good  to  me." 

Burpham  gave  a  queer  laugh,  and  stared  at  Beauty 
so  that  a  wave  of  color  swept  into  her  face. 
[364] 


I 
THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

"In  expectation  of  favors  to  come,"  he  said. 

Beauty  flung  a  cushion  at  him,  which  he  caught 
with  his  left  hand  in  time  to  save  his  head. 

"Oh,  Lord  1"  cried  Kitty.  "Now  we  are  going  to 
have  Baby's  flow  of  original  wit,  his  brilliant  gifts 
of  repartee,  his  subtle  innuendoes.  Nick,  save  me, 
lest  I  die.     Take  me  to  the  theatre  or  something." 

"Yes,''  said  Beauty.  "Take  the  child  to  the  the- 
atre, Nick,  it  will  do  you  both  good." 

"I'll  pay,"  said  Baby  Burpham,  taking  out  two 
sovereigns  from  the  silver  purse  on  his  watch-chain, 
and  flinging  them  across  the  piano  to  Kitty. 

Lady  Burpham  grabbed  them,  and  made  a  face. 

"They  seem  precious  glad  to  get  rid  of  us,"  said 
Kitty.    "Don't  they,  Nick?" 

Burpham  grinned. 

"We  see  too  much  of  each  other,  even  for  such 
a  loving  couple  as  ourselves.  Take  a  rest  from  me, 
Kit." 

"Thanks,"  said  Kitty.    "I  will.    Come  on,  Nick." 

Nick  went  unwillingly,  cursing  himself  for  a  weak 
fool.  Yet  he  was  glad  to  get  out  into  the  fresh  air, 
and  glad  to  escape  from  Baby  Burpham,  whom  he 
hated  worse  than  Rosenbaum. 

Outside  the  hotel  Kitty  stuck  up  her  umbrella  and 
hailed  a  hansom  cab. 

"Drive  round,"  she  said,  "anywhere.  Clapliam 
G)mmon,  or  Wild  West  Kensington.  Keep  going, 
that's  all.    See?" 

[365] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

The  cabman  touched  his  hat.  He  had  heard  of 
such  things  before. 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  the  theatre,"  said 
Nick. 

*'If  s  too  deadly,'^  said  Kitty.  "Same  old  plays, 
same  old  women,  same  old  jokes.  God !  I  couldn't 
stand  it  to-night.  .  .  .  Settle  yourself  down, 
Nick.  .  .  .  How  cool  and  sweet  the  air  is !  .  .  . 
Look  at  the  stars  twinkling  above  the  house  tops. 
Let's  go  beyond  the  lights  of  the  streets,  into  some 
place  of  darkness  where  there  are  only  stars.  The 
Commons  are  not  far  away.  ...  I  feel  Pagan 
to-night.  I  want  fresh  air,  solitude,  space,  the  smell 
of  the  earth,  the  song  of  the  stars.  .  .  .  Ever 
feel  Hke  that,  Nick?" 

"Often." 

They  were  silent  for  a  time.  Nick  listened  to  the 
klip-klop  of  the  horse's  feet,  the  jingle- jangle  of  its 
bells.  He  stared  at  the  lights  as  they  flashed  by,  at 
the  vague,  white  faces  of  hurrying  people.  But  all 
the  time  his  thoughts  were  with  Beauty.  He  wished 
to  Heaven  he  could  persuade  her  to  get  rid  of  Rosen- 
baum  and  Baby  Burpham.  He  would  ask  her  to 
come  away  into  the  country  with  him.  After  the 
fun  of  her  piece  she  might  like  the  idea,  and  it  was 
coming  off  quite  soon — to-morrow,  now  he  came  to 
fhink  of  it.  She  would  be  free  then  for  a  little  while, 
M\d  they  could  have  a  holiday  alone  in  some  old 
(.otmtry  inn  among  the  fields  and  the  flowers.     It 

[366] 


I 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

would  be  cleansing  to  both  of  them.  It  would  cleanse 
them  of  this  London  malady,  this  fever-stricken  life. 

"Nick/'  said  Kitty,  "you  and  I  are  twin  souls, 
strange  as  it  may  appear." 

"Think  so?" 

"I  know  it.  I  am  like  you,  Nick — good  at  the 
heart.  All  my  swear  words  don't  mean  anything. 
If  I  could  get  away  from  Baby  I  should  get  clean 
again.  It  is  he  who  smirches  me,  who  puts  the  devil 
into  me.  He  is  a  beast  of  beasts.  Away  from  him 
I  should  be  a  decent  thing.  I  have  good  instincts. 
I  love  the  beauty  of  things.  I  love  the  souls  of 
things.    Understand,  Nick?" 

"Perfectly." 

She  was  silent  again  for  a  long  time,  until  the  cab 
took  them  out  of  the  crowded  London  streets  into 
the  quieter  suburbs,  and  presently  into  a  road  along- 
side a  great  open  space  where  there  was  quietude  and 
darkness.    It  was  Clapham  Common. 

Kitty  put  her  hand  through  the  trap  and  said 
"Stop!" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?"  asked  Nick. 

"Let's  walk  about  a  bit." 

She  jumped  out  of  the  cab,  and  after  some  words 
to  the  driver,  who  seemed  anxious  about  the  fare, 
took  Nick's  hand  and  walked  on  to  the  common, 
until  they  were  beyond  the  light  of  the  gas-lamps 
and  in  the  shadow  world  of  trees  which  loomed  out 
[367] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

of  the  blackness.  It  was  a  warm  night  and  the  air 
was  very  still.  The  sky  was  strewn  with  stars. 
They  were  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  a  pond  as 
though  they  were  floating  there. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here/'  said  Kitty.  "This  is  bet- 
ter than  the  theatre  with  its  glare  of  lights,  and 
stench  of  women's  perfumes  and  scented  hair.  Pah! 
The  beastliness  of  civilized  life!  The  rottenness  of 
it  all!" 

Suddenly  she  began  to  cry  a  little. 

*'What's  the  matter?"  said  Nick. 

He  felt  horribly  ill  at  ease.  He  had  a  sense  of 
danger.  Kitty's  tears  made  her  more  dangerous  to 
him  than  her  swear-words.    " 

"I'm  so  beastly  lonely!"  she  whimpered,  "I  feel 
always  alone  in  the  great  desert  of  life." 

Then  suddenly  she  came  close  to  him,  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  her  face  so  close  to  his 
face  that  her  breath  was  warm  upon  his  lips. 

"Nick,  you've  been  a  pal  to  me  since  I  knew  you. 
I  love  you,  Nick.  Can't  we  cut  and  run  together? 
We  could  be  as  happy  as  kids,  you  and  I.  I  would 
teach  you  how  to  love.  I  would  put  my  arms  round 
you  like  this,  and  kiss  you — like  this !" 

She  kissed  him  a  dozen  times,  clasping  him  so 
tight  that  he  could  not  struggle  free  from  her.  She 
clung  to  him,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  strength. 

He  jerked  his  head  back,  and  cried  out: 

[368] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

"Don't!  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't!  Are  you 
mad,  Kitty?" 

"Yes,  as  mad  as  a  hatter.  I  am  mad  for  your 
love,  Nick,  because  you  are  such  a  boy  and  so  good 
in  your  heart.  You  would  make  me  less  sick  with 
the  world.  We  could  make  a  great  game  of  life. 
Oh,  my  dear  boy !  My  pretty  boy !  I  want  you  so 
badly.     Kiss  me,  Nick.     Kiss  me!" 

He  managed  to  get  his  arms  free  from  her  clasp, 
roughly.  He  held  her  by  the  wrists,  so  that  she 
could  not  cling  to  him. 

"This  is  horrible!"  he  said.  "Behave  yourself, 
can't  you?" 

He  spoke  brutally,  savage  with  her  for  this 
abandonment  of  self-respect.  In  the  darkness  she 
seemed  to  him  witchlike.  He  could  see  the  white- 
ness of  her  face,  and  her  burning  eyes. 

She  was  panting  like  a  wild  creature. 

"Don't  be  a  prig,  Nick.  Be  kind  and  human. 
Don't  you  understand  ?  You  and  I  want  each  other. 
We  are  made  for  each  other.  I  am  your  mate- 
woman.     God  made  me  your  mate,  Nick." 

She  thrust  her  face  forward  again,  and  tried  to 
cHng  to  him  again.  Her  lips  were  kissing  the  air. 
Her  eyes  had  a  greenish  light,  like  cat's  eyes.  But 
he  still  held  her  wrists  quite  tightly,  and  kq)t  her 
away. 

"Be  quiet!"  he  said  sharply.  "Remember  your 
decency.    You  are  a  married  woman.    I     .     .   .     " 

[369] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"A  married  woman?  .  .  .  That's  a  lie. 
Burpham's  beastliness  made  me  free  of 
him.  ...  I  owe  him  no  loyalty.  .  .  .  But 
I  would  be  loyal  to  you,  Nick,  loyal  to  the  death, 
in  big  things  and  little  things.  Surely  you  won't  be 
angry  with  me  because  I  am  ready  to  give  you  all 
the  best  in  me.  All  that  is  good  in  me  would  be 
.yours.  And  if  you  like  you  can  throw  me  away 
when  you  are  tired  of  me.  Chuck  me  away  like  an 
old  boot.  I  won't  make  you  pledge  yourself.  When 
you  are  sick  of  me,  I'll  take  the  hint.  You  can  send 
me  off  with  a  nod  and  a  That's  enough !'  But  for 
a  Httle  while,  Nick,  for  a  few  months,  a  few  weeks, 
we  could  be  as  happy  as  kittens.  We  would  play 
at  love  together,  and  make  believe,  and  I  would  be 
as  good  as  gold." 

"Good?"  said  Nick.  "Oh,  Lord!  You  don't  un- 
derstand the  word.  You  speak  Hke  a  vile  creature. 
You     .      .      .     you  make  me  shiver." 

"Do  I?"  she  said.    "Do  I?" 

All  the  pleading  in  her  voice  changed  to  a  sudden 
shrill  rage,  and  she  jerked  her  hands  free  from  his 
grasp. 

"WJiy,  you  are  like  the  rest  of  men,  as  cruel  as 
devils.     I  thought  you 'were  kind." 

She  laughed  with  hysteria  in  her  voice. . 

"Lord  God !    I  thought  he  was  kind !" 

Nick  was  scared  now.  This  scene  in  the  dark- 
[  370  ] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

ness  of  the  lonely  common  was  fantastic  and  hor- 
rible. 

**Let's  go  back,"  he  said.  "The  cab  is  waiting  for 
us." 

"Go  back  where  ?"  asked  Kitty.  "Are  you  in  such 
a  hurry  to  go  back  to  a  mother  who  is  playing  the 
wanton  with  my  man?" 

Nick  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  horror,  "Kitty!" 

"Oh,  I  won't  spare  you  now,"  said  Kitty.  "I  will 
tell  you  what  I  wanted  to  hide  from  you,  because  I 
thought  it  would  hurt  you.  Hurt  you?  I  want  to 
hurt  you.  I  shall  laugh  to  hear  you  moan  like  a 
wounded  thing  when  you  know  the  truth.  Haven't 
you  guessed  the  truth  about  Beauty  and  Baby  Bur- 
pham,  about  Beauty  and  Rosenbaum  ?  No,  you  were 
blinded  with  your  virtuous  conceit.  You  shut  your 
eyes  to  the  truth.  That  precious  mother  of  yours! 
Beauty!  The  mother  you  worship  with  your  eyes. 
Why,  she  is  rotten  to  the  heart.  Baby  Burpham 
is  her  lover  with  Rosenbaum,  the  Jew.  Don't  you 
know  that,  poor  innocent?  Don't  you  know  that 
she  and  Burpham,  my  baby-faced  husband,  are  as 
guilty  as  two  devils?  -Oh,  you  groan.  Because  you 
know  I  tell  the  truth,  and  the  truth  hurts.  But  it  is 
tit  for  tat.  You  hurt  me,  didn't  you  ?  Called  me  a 
vile  creature?  Yes,  but  not  so  vile  as  that  lady 
mother  of  yours,  who  sends  us  out  together  so  that 
she  may  be  alone  with  the  man  she  belongs  to.-  Gro 
back  to  her  now,  and  ask  her  whether  I  lie.     She 

[371] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

will  swear  I  lie,  but  you  will  see  the  guilt  in  her 
eyes.  Why,  I  knew  it  months  ago.  I  can  give  you 
dates  and  times.  But  I  said  nothing.  I  laughed.  I 
taunted  Baby  with  it,  and  laughed  again.  I  laugh 
now.  It  is  a  rare  joke,  and  I  have  a  pretty  sense 
of  humor." 

She  laughed  in  the  darkness,  and  Nick  shuddered 
at  the  sound  of  her  witch-like  laughter,  so  shrill  and 
horrible. 

''You  had  better  go  back,"  he  said,  quietly.  "I 
will  take  you  to  your  cab." 

She  walked  a  little  way  behind  him,  because  he 
strode  swiftly  across  the  Common.  He  could  hear 
the  swish  of  her  dress  across  the  grass,  the  tinkle 
of  her  bracelets.  On  the  edge  of  the  Common  the 
cab  was  waiting  for  them. 

"Get  in,"  he  said; 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  sleeve  for  a  moment,  and 
said: 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  told  you  the  truth.  You  had  to 
know." 

"Get  in,"  he  said. 

She  climbed  into  the  cab,  and  huddled  herself  into 
the  comer. 

"We  will  go  back,"  said  Nick,  "and  I  will  ask  you 
to  say  before  my  mother  what  you  have  said  to  me. 
If  what  you  said  was  false,  perhaps  God,  or  some- 
thing, will  teach  me  how  to  punish  you." 
[  372  ] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

He  gave  the  address  to  the  man,  and  took  his  seat 
in  the  cab. 

They  drove  back  in  silence.  Kitty  Burpham  cried 
part  of  the  way,  and  then  was  very  still.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  journey  she  spoke  his  name  very  softly 
in  a  pleading  way,  but  he  did  not  answer  her.  His 
face  was  as  hard  as  though  carved  out  of  granite. 
As  the  cab  rattled  into  the  hotel  courtyard  Kitty 
spoke  again. 

"It  is  the  truth,  Nick.  I  swear  to  God  it  is  the 
truth.     But  I'm  sorry." 

Big  Ben  struck  twelve  strokes  as  Nick  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  and  paid  the  cabman. 

The  door  of  Beauty's  flat  was  opened  by  her  maid. 
The  girl  seemed  surprised  to  see  the  two  visitors, 
though  both  of  them  had  been  to  Beauty's  rooms 
much  later  in  the  night.  She  stared  at  them  curi- 
ously. 

"Your  mother  went  out  with  his  lordship,"  she 
said  to  Nick.  *T  packed  some  things  for  her.  She 
wore  her  motor  coat." 

She  glanced  toward  Kitty  and  said : 

"His  lordship  was  going  for  a  midnight  drive.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  knew." 

Kitty  Burpham  looked  at  Nick,  but  did  not  speak. 
He  stared  at  his  mother's  maid  In  a  dazed  way,  and 
as  he  said  nothing,  she  resumed  her  monologue, 
standing  quietly  at  the  door. 
[373] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

*1  think  there  Is  a  letter  for  you,  sir.  I  saw  it 
lying  on  the  writing-table." 

Nick  strode  through  the  door  into  the  sitting- 
room.  Kitty  followed  him.  They  were  alone  to- 
gether in  this  room,  where  the  chairs  were  littered 
with  illustrated  papers,  and  sheets  of  music,  just  as 
they  had  left  it.  The  stump  of  one  of  Burpham's 
cigars  was  lying  on  a  silver  ash-tray  on  a  little  table 
by  the  side  of  the  fireplace.  On  the  writing-table 
was  the  letter  which  the  maid  had  seen.  It  was 
addressed  to  Nicholas  Barton,  Esquire,  at  the  studio 
in  the  Fulham  Road,  but  it  was  unstamped. 

Nicholas  stared  at  it,  and  then  opened  it  slowly. 

Kitty  watched  him  from  a  little  distance,  like  a 
woman  fascinated  by  a  poignant  scene  in  some  prob- 
lem drama,  by  some  excellent  piece  of  acting. 

The  letter  was  not  a  long  one.  It  contained  just 
a  few  simple  words. 

Dearest  Nick  : 

I  have  gone  away  with  Burpham.  I  tried  not  to, 
but  you  know  how  weak  I  am.  He  would  not  wait 
any  longer  for  me.  I  suppose  the  devil  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Of  course,  I  hate  myself,  and  I 
know  you  will  think  the  worst  of  me.  I  was  born 
bad.  If  only  I  had  been  born  good!  You  see,  I  blot 
this  paper  with  my  tears.  Your  father  will  say  they 
are  sham  tears.    But  there  is  salt  in  them. 

Good-by,  dearest  Nick.  ,;.       ,     . 

•'  Your  lovmg 

P.S.— Tell  Kitty  I'm  sorry.  Beauty. 

[374] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

Nicholas  read  the  letter  very  slowly  and  then 
crumpled  it  in  his  hand.  His  face  was  deadly  white, 
and  a  mist  came  before  his  eyes.  Kitty,  who  was 
watching  him,  saw  that  he  swayed  a  little,  as  though 
overcome  with  faintness.  But  he  turned  round  to 
her,  and  held  out  the  letter. 

"You  told  the  truth,"  he  said.  "And  you  were 
right.     It  hurts.     ...     It  hurts." 

The  girl  went  down  on  her  knees  before  him  as 
he  sat  down  heavily  on  the  sofa,  with  his  head  droop- 
ing forward. 

"Nick,  dear  Nick  .  .  .  You  and  I  are  to- 
gether in  this.  They  have  both  chucked  us.  .  .  . 
Oh,  sweetheart,  let  us  comfort  each  other.  Let  me 
stay  with  you  and  love  you.  We  both  want  love  so 
badly." 

She  poured  out  a  flood  of  wild  words,  fondling  his 
hands,  clinging  to  him. 

For  a  little  while  he  seemed  quite  unconscious  of 
her.  Indeed,  he  was  utterly  unconscious  of  her, 
thinking  only  of  Beauty,  who  had  left  him  again, 
who  had  twice  abandoned  him. 

Then  he  stood  up  very  straight,  and  spoke  in  a 
quiet,  hollow  voice: 

"You  are  as  vile  as  Beauty.  You  have  the  same 
kind  of  heart  and  brain.  You  and  my  mother !  A 
pretty  pair !  I  don't  know  why  such  women  as  you 
are  allowed  to  live." 

She  still  clung  to  his  arm,  but  he  thrust  her  off 
[375] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

violently,  and  strode  out  of  the  room,  and  out  into 
the  passage.  On  his  way  to  the  door  he  had  knocked 
over  a  little  table,  but  was  like  a  man  blind  and  deaf, 
so  that  he  did  not  see  or  hear  it  fall.  In  the  streets 
of  London  and  in  the  suburbs  beyond  he  walked  for 
hours,  until  the  dawn  came  and  then  the  day,  and 
he  staggered  home  to  his  studio  half  way  through 
the  morning,  like  a  man  who  had  traveled  a  long 
way  with  despair. 

Yet  he  was  quite  calm  when  he  spoke  to  Comyns, 
who  had  finished  breakfast  and  was  lolling  back  in 
the  cane  arm-chair,  reading  the  literary  column  of 
the  Morning  Post. 

Comyns  was  less  calm.  He  seemed  to  shirk  Nick's 
eyes,  and  to  be  restless  and  ill  at  ease.  He  flung  the 
paper  down  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room  light- 
ing cigarettes,  smoking  them  for  a  whiff  or  two,  then 
flinging  them  into  the  fire-grate. 

"Any  breakfast  going?"  asked  Nick.  He  busied 
himself  with  the  gas-stove,  and  boiled  up  the  kettle, 
and  made  himself  some  tea.  He  was  famished,  and 
hunger  and  fatigue  dulled  the  sharp  edge  of  the  pain 
which  had  throbbed  into  his  brain  through  the  night. 
Now  he  felt  strangely  calm  and  self-composed,  like 
a  drugged  man,  dull  about  the  head,  with  all  his 
emotions  blunted. 

Comyns  stared  at  him  once  or  twice  when  ke  was 
not  looking,  and  made  some  random  remarks  which 
Nick  answered  shortly.  Then  he  whistled  a  music- 
[376] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

hall  melody  over  and  over  again,  as  he  stood  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  staring  out  of  the  window. 
Finally  he  swung  round  on  his  heel  abruptly  and 
said : 

*'Nick,  old  man,  I  think  we  shall  have  to  dissolve 
partnership.  I  have  been  thinking  things  over,  and 
I  have  decided  not  to  go  on  with  this  art  game.  I 
shan't  want  this  studio  any  more." 

Nick  sliced  off  the  top  of  his  Qgg. 

*'l  thought  you  wouldn't  stick  to  it.  Going  back 
to  Grosvenor  Square?" 

Comyns  laughed  rather  nervously. 

''En  passant,  perhaps.  But  I  shall  set  up  else- 
where, after  I  have  squared  the  governor." 

**A  new  hobby?"  asked  Nick. 

He  was  really  not  curious.  He  was  only  wonder- 
ing where  he  could  find  a  cheap  studio  for  himself. 
He  would  have  to  get  the  cheapest  place  he  could. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  be  good  to  live  alone, 
without  Jack  Comyns,  who  was  a  time-waster.  He 
would  waste  no  more  time.  He  would  work  early 
and  late,  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  During  the 
night  he  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf.  After  the  wild 
grief  and  a^ny  of  the  night,  when  his  mother's  be- 
trayal had  shattered  the  world  beneath  his  feet,  he 
had  become  sane  with  the  daylight.  He  had  seen 
things  then  with  a  cold,  white  vision.  He  praised 
God  that  after  his  accusations  of  all  womanhood, 
after  his  condemnation  of  his  mother,  arraigned  be- 
[  377  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

fore  the  judgment  bar  of  his  conscience,  after  the 
sickness  and  loathing  with  which  the  thought  of 
Kitty  Burpham  had  made  him  spiritually  ill,  his 
faith  in  virtue,  which  had  been  shipwrecked,  was 
saved  by  the  memory  of  Joan.  He  clung  to  his  ideal 
of  Joan  like  a  drowning  man.  He  clung  to  his  love 
for  her  as  a  saving  grace  in  this  wild  storm  of  his 
soul.  And  then  he  groped  his  way  back  to  old 
ambitions  and  lighted  again  the  old  fires,  which  had 
burnt  out  in  his  heart.  He  would  work  to  win  her. 
He  would  work  as  a  man  inspired  by  the  hope  of 
a  great  prize.  He  had  failed  to  gain  the  gold  medal, 
but,  with  the  help  of  God,  he  would  not  fail  to  gain 
the  heart  of  Joan,  which  was  of  purer  gold.  .  .  . 
Work,  that  would  heal  his  wounds.  Work,  the  great 
spiritual  tonic!  He  would  work  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood by  art.  There  were  men  not  much  older  than 
himself  who  were  earning  good  money  as  designers, 
black-and-white  men,  newspaper  artists.  He  would 
learn  the  tricks  of  their  trade  and  force  his  way  into 
the  open  market.    With  a  little  luck     . 

It  was  then  that  he  looked  up  at  Comyns  and 
said: 

"A  new  hobby?" 

And  it  was  then  that  he  noticed  a  curious  look 
of  embarrassment  on  the  face  of  Comyns,  a  shirking 
look  in  his  eyes. 

His  friend  laughed  again,  and  said,  with  a  queer 
attempt  at  gaiety: 

[378] 


I 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

'Tt  depends  upon  what  you  call  a  hobby.  .  .  . 
The  tmth  is — I  think  of  settling  down  in  my  old 
age.  I  think  of  plunging  into  the  adventure  of 
matrimony." 

''Fact?"  asked  Nick. 

He  was  startled.  He  had  not  expected  this  reason 
for  his  friend's  change  of  plans.  Perhaps  he  was 
only  "kidding."    He  was  a  great  hand  at  leg-pulling. 

"Gospel  fact." 

Nick  was  silent.  He  was  casting  about  in  his 
mind  to  think  who  the  lady  might  be.  It  was  not 
easy  to  guess.  Comyns  had  played  the  gallant  with 
so  many  girls — art-students,  artists'  models,  bache- 
lor girls  in  Chelsea. 

"Who  is  she,  old  man?" 

Comyns  gave  him  three  guesses,  and  glanced  at 
him  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  while  Nick  tried 
to  guess  and  failed. 

Then  Comyns  uttered  a  remarkable  monologue, 
with  jerky  sentences,  unlike  his  usual  fluent  speech, 
and  with  strange  hesitations  and  awkward  pauses. 

"I  meant  to  have  kept  it  secret  from  you  for  some 
time.  .  .  .  But  she  said  it  would  not  be  playing 
the  straight  game.  .  .  .  She  made  me  promise 
to  tell  you.  .  .  .  The  truth  is  I  had  no  idea 
we  drifted  into  it.  .  .  .  It  took  us 
both  by  surprise.  You  know  the  way.  A  sudden 
awakening  .  .  .  all  in  a  flash.  .  .  .  Two 
souls  staring  into  each  other,  meeting,  mingling, 
[379] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

with  a  tremendous  shock.  ...  I  didn't  think 
I  could  feel  like  that  I  was  carried  clean  off  my 
feet  .  .  .  and  it  was  only  afterward  I  thought 
of  you,  and  felt  a  cad,  and  got  into  a  blue  funk. 
.  .  My  dear  old  chap,  we  have  been  good  pals. 
I  should  hate  you  to  think  badly  of  me.  The  for- 
tune of  war,  you  know  .  .  .  my  luck.  Your 
ill  luck.  .  .  .  If  it  had  been  the  other  way  abou't 
I  should  have  wrung  you  by  the  hand  and  wished 
you  all  the  best.  Nick,  old  man,  it's  like  this  .  .  . 
Joan  and  I " 

He  did  not  finish  his  speech.  Before  he  had  got 
to  the  end  of  it  Nick  had  risen  to  his  feet.  There 
was  a  frightened  look  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be 
waiting  breathlessly,  like  a  man  waiting  for  sen- 
tence of  life  or  death.  When  Comyns  said  ''Joan 
and  I"  Nick  staggered,  as  though  struck  by  a  heavy 
blow.  He  raised  his  arm,  as  though  to  guard  his 
head  from  the  blow,  and  then  his  hand  dropped 
limply  by  his  side. 

''Jo2Ln  and  you?"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
**What  do  you  mean?    Joan  and  you?" 

*7oan  and  I  love  each  other,"  said  Comyns.  An^ 
then,  as  though  conscience-stricken  by  the  sight  of 
his  friend's  face,  he  said,  "I'm  sorry,  old  man.  I'm 
frightfully  sorry." 

The  two  men,  both  of  them  very  young,  stared  at 
each  other,  searching  each  other's  face.  For  a  mo- 
ment it  seemed  as  if  some  tremendous  passion  was 
[380] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

surging  into  Nick's  face,  as  though  Something  was 
struggling  up  from  his  heart  to  clutch  at  his  throat. 
But  he  stood  quite  still,  gripping  the  back  of  a  cane 
chair,  and  presently  the  flame  faded  out  of  his  cheeks 
and  the  fire  out  of  his  eyes,  leaving  him  tired- 
looking,  dog-tired,  and  done. 

"It  can't  be  helped,"  he  said.  "Nothing  can  be 
helped.     One  has  to  face  it." 

A  little  while  later  Comyns  left  the  studio,  and 
when  he  had  gone  Nick  sat  at  the  table  with  the  lit- 
ter of  breakfast  things  about  him,  his  arms  folded 
across  the  plates,  his  head  down  on  his  arms.  It 
was  an  hour  later  when  he  raised  his  head,  an  older 
man  than  when  he  had  put  it  down,  and  listened  to 
a  knocking  at  the  door.  He  took  a  deep  breath,  and 
went  unsteadily  across  the  floor,  and  opened  the 
door. 

On  the  threshold  stood  two  old  friends — the 
Lonely  Lady  and  the  Merman. 

They  stood  there,  hand  in  hand,  smiling  at  him. 

Edward  Frampton — ^the  Merman — was  so  dis- 
guised that  Nick  hardly  recognized  him.  He  wore 
a  glossy  silk  hat,  and  a  black  morning  coat,  and 
pepper  and  salt  trousers  over  white  spats  and  patent 
leather  shoes.  He  looked  ten  years  younger  than 
when  Nick  had  last  seen  him,  and  had  keen,  clear 
eyes,  and  a  cheery  air  of  self-confidence  and 
strength. 

[  381  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

"Nick,"  he  said,  *1  have  brought  my  wife  to  see 
you.     Have  you  a  welcome  for  us?" 

Edward  Frampton's  wife — the  Lonely  Lady— had 
her  arms  about  him,  and  her  eyes  were  radiant. 

"My  poor  Nick,  you  look  like  a  ghost.  What  has 
happened  to  you?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Nick.     "Nothing  that  matters." 

And  yet  when  Frampton  went  away  on  some  ex- 
cuse, leaving  his  wife  behind,  Nick  had  to  confess 
that  something  had  happened  which  mattered  a  good 
deal. 

"I  have  lost  faith  in  life,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to 
God  I  were  dead." 

He  put  his  head  into  his  hands,  and  wept.  .  .  . 
After  all,  he  was  very  young. 

And  the  woman  who  had  been  the  wise  woman  of 
his  boyhood,  who  had  helped  to  form  his  character, 
and  who  had  given  him  his  first  ambition,  used  all 
her  wisdom  now  to  help  him. 

She  did  not  ask  to  loiow  his  story,  but  she  told 
him  hers,  and  laid  bare  her  heart  to  him,  and  con- 
fessed to  him  some  of  its  agonies  and  some  of  its 
doubts,  when  she,  too,  had  wished  she  was  dead. 

"Do  not  lose  faith  in  life,  Nick,"  she  said  at  last. 
"For  hope  is  stronger  when  it  is  born  of  despair, 
and  faith  more  certain  when  it  follows  doubt,  and 
success  more  precious  when  it  has  been  taught  by 
failure.  .  .  .  Look  at  me,  Nick!  I  have  won 
through  after  so  many  years  of  groping,  so  many 
[382] 


THE  ROD  OF  FATE 

weaknesses,  so  many  futile  days.  I  have  won  a  man 
out  of  the  depths.  Edward  Frampton  has  escaped 
through  me.  He  is  my  miracle.  You  understand? 
.  .  .  Nick,  my  poor  boy,  you  see  it  Is  too  early 
for  you  to  lose  faith  in  life.  Why,  life  is  all  in  front 
of  you,  and  there  is  your  work  to  do." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room,  and  then 
Nick  looked  up  and  took  a  deep,  long  breath. 

"Work,"  he  said,  "yes,  thank  God  for  that.  A 
man  can  always  work." 


[3831 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

The  little  housemaid  who  was  polishing  the 
knocker  of  a  house  in  Redcliffe  Road  did  not  know 
that  Fate  stood  on  the  steps  next  door  by  the  side 
of  a  young  man  who  had  hesitated  outside  the  gate 
before  he  thrust  it  open.  She  saw  only  a  good- 
looking  young  man,  in  shabby  clothes  and  a  dump 
hat,  with  a  big  sketch  book  under  one  arm  and  his 
right  hand  gripping  a  heavy  portmanteau.  She  did 
not  see  that  he  was  being  watched  by  the  vigilant 
eyes  of  eternal  curiosity,  that  he  was  being  touched 
by  the  invisible  hands  of  a  guiding  spirit,  that  he 
was  the  unconscious  servant  of  a  masterful  force, 
which  some  men  call  Fate,  and  others  Luck,  and 
others — in  humble  moments — God. 

Nicholas  Barton  himself  was  unaware  of  the 
guiding  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  He  was  aware 
only  of  a  tragic  depression  of  spirits,  of  a  gray  world, 
robbed  of  its  sunlight,  and  of  a  duty  to  be  paid.  The 
duty  was  to  his  father.  He  knew  now  how  right  his 
father  had  been,  how  terribly  right.  But  he  had 
abandoned  this  man,  who  had  been  his  comrade,  for 
the  woman  who  had  betrayed  both  of  them.  Now 
the  least  he  could  do  was  to  return,  to  pick  up  the 
[384] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

old  threads  which  had  been  broken  by  Beauty's  hand, 
to  say  "Father,  I  have  come  back." 

Those  words  rose  to  his  lips  as  he  lifted  the 
knocker. 

''Father,  I  have  come  back." 

He  felt  like  the  Prodigal  Son.  Yet  he  had  eaten 
no  swine's  food.  He  had  kept  himself  clean.  Rather 
he  was  like  a  man  who  had  gone  forth  from  beneath 
his  father's  roof-tree  in  search  of  adventure,  with 
high  hopes,  and  a  buoyant  heart,  and  ideals  glim- 
mering with  a  white  light  before  him,  but  had  been 
waylaid  by  enemies  and  had  been  beaten  and  bat- 
tered, and  then  had  lost  his  way  in  a  dark  wood 
with  no  light  at  all  to  guide  him,  until  he  had  strug- 
gled back,  inglorious,  bruised,  shamefaced  to  his 
sire. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Polly,  and  he  spoke  to 
her  in  a  queer,  jaunty  tone,  so  that  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice  rang  queerly  in  his  ears. 

"Hulloh,  Polly     ...     I  have  come  back." 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy,  and  clasped  him  in 
her  arms.  But  a  moment  later  she  unclasped  her 
arms,  and  raised  her  hands  to  her  bosom  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  strange  fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Master  Nick!" 

He  was  startled.    He  had  known  his  old  nurse's 

face  since  first  he  had  seen  any  face,  but  he  had 

never  seen  it  so  drawn  with  grief,  and  with  such 

a  sharp  anxiety  in  the  eyes.    It  seemed  to  him  that 

[  385  ] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

she  spoke  to  him  of  tragedy,  though  her  words  told 
him  nothing.  The  abrupt  way  in  which  her  little 
cry  of  joy  at  his  home-coming  changed  into  that 
lament  of  *'Oh,  Master  Nick!"  made  his  heart  fall 
with  a  kind  of  thud.    He  stammered  out  a  question. 

"The  governor?    Is  he     .      .     .     ill?" 

In  his  heart  the  question  was: 

"Is  he  dying     ...     or  dead?" 

Polly  shut  the  hall  door,  and  grasped  him  by  the 
sleeve,  and  led  him  into  the  dining-room.  She  spoke 
incoherently,  putting  a  trembling  hand  to  her  head, 
and  thrusting  her  cap  sideways. 
.  "I'm  fair  worried.  Master  Nick.  Your  poor  dear 
Pa  has  been  out  all  night,  walking  the  streets,  I 
expect.  It's  been  the  same  these  weeks  past.  No 
sleep.  Pacing  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  in  the 
bedroom,  and  now  and  then  a  groan  like  a  wounded 
thing.  Then  out  at  night,  and  me  scared  to  death, 
and  a  look  so  sad  to  make  any  'eart  bleed,  when 
he  comes  back  before  the  milkman.  But  never  so  late 
before.  It's  ten  o'clock,  and  he's  not  home  yet — 
and  all  the  bacon  burned  to  a  cinder,  and  my  'ead 
like  an  empty  larder  with  a  mouse  running  about 
inside.  I  have  a  fear  gnawing  in  my  'ead  like  a 
mouse,  Master  Nick,  if  you  can  take  what  I  mean." 

"A  fear?"  said  Nick. 

He  also  had  a  fear.    Those  incoherent  words  of 
Polly's  gave  him  a  tragic  picture  of  his  father,  of 

4 

[386] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

his  father's  sleeplessness,  of  his  lonely  night  walks, 
of  his  wretchedness. 

"Like  a  wounded  thing,"  Polly  had  said,  and 
Nicholas  knew  that  Beauty  and  he  had  dealt  the 
man  his  wounds.  Beauty  had  stabbed  first,  Nick 
had  driven  the  knife  deeper  in. 

*'A  fear?"  asked  Nick. 

Polly  whispered  to  him : 

''  'E's  a  bit  queer,"  she  said. 

"Queer?" 

Nick  spoke  in  a  kind  of  hoarse  whisper  also. 

"Oh,  Master  Nick!"  said  Polly,  " 'e  s  not  the 
same  man  since  he  came  to  town,  so  glad  to  think 
'e  would  set  up  'ouse  with  you  again.  He  came 
'ome  one  day  quite  changed.  There's  a  'unted  look 
in  'is  eyes.  'E  speaks  to  'imself.  After  them  lonely 
walks  'e  comes  back  so  moody  and  so  broody,  I 
could  cry  my  'eart  out  at  the  sight  of  'im." 

Presently  Polly  left  Nick  alone.  She  had  her 
work  to  do,  she  said,  and  somehow  those  words  were 
a  lesson  to  him.  In  spite  of  her  fears  and  her 
troubles  she  "had  her  work  to  do."  He  heard  her 
go  into  the  kitchen  and  shut. the  door,  and  standing 
in  his  father's  sitting-room,  Nicholas  Barton  made 
use  of  the  words  spoken  by  his  old  nurse  and  his 
father's  servant,  and  said : 

"I,  too,  have  my  work  to  do." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stared  into  the  street. 
The  little  red-headed  housemaid  who  had  been  pol- 

[387] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

ishing  the  knocker  next  door  was  now  cleaning  the 
steps.  She  was  singing  as  she  worked.  A  butcher's 
boy  with  a  tray  on  his  head  was  marching  along  the 
pavement,  keeping  step  to  a  tune  which  he  whistled 
with  a  blithe  note.  From  the  opposite  house  a  man 
with  a  Wack  coat  and  tall  hat  came  out,  waved  up  to 
the  windows,  and  then  strode  off  to  his  day's  work, 
with  a  brisk  pace. 

"Work!"  thought  Nick.  "That's  the  saving 
grace." 

Then  suddenly,  as  he  stood  at  the  window,  star- 
ing out  upon  the  street,  he  saw  his  father's  face. 

Bristles  came  across  the  road,  slowly,  with  his 
head  bent  down  as  though  his  eyes  were  searching 
for  something  in  the  roadway.  He  hesitated  out- 
side his  iron  gate,  just  as  Nick  had  hesitated,  went 
past  it,  seemed  to  falter  uncertainly,  came  back  again, 
and  put  his  hand  upon  the  gate  and  glanced  up  first 
at  the  bedroom  window. 

It  was  in  that  moment  when  he  glanced  up  that 
Nick  seemed  to  feel  an  icy  hand  upon  his  heart. 
For  his  father's  face  was  stamped  with  the  imprint 
of  tragedy.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  dull 
despair.  It  was  a  face  like  a  mask  of  pain.  And 
the  uncertainty  with  which  he  had  hesitated  before 
his  own  gate,  this  faltering,  as  though  he  were 
afraid  to  come  home,  this  strange,  furtive  glance  at 
the  bedroom  window,  filled  Nick  with  a  horrible 
uneasiness.  He  stood  quite  still  listening  acutely 
[388] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

as  a  key  turned  in  tl^e  lock  of  the  front  door.  It 
turned  very  quietly,  as  though  the  man  were  afraid 
of  being  heard.  The  door  was  shut  again  with  ex- 
traordinary quietude,  as  though  by  a  thief  in  the 
night.  Then  Nick  heard  his  father's  footsteps  pass- 
ing with  a  stealthy  tread  across  the  hall,  like  the 
steps  of  a  man  creeping  on  tip-toe.  A  mon^ent  later 
a  stair  creaked  slightly.  A  door  was  opened  on  the 
landing  above,  and  shut  again  almost  noiselessly. 

The  ceiling  of  the  sitting-room  shook  a  little  with 
a  heavy  tread.    Then  silence. 

Nicholas  Barton  stood  with  his  head  raised,  listen- 
ing. He  listened  as  though  his  soul  were  in  his 
ears.  He  did  not  like  this  silence.  He  hated  it.  It 
put  a  terror  into  his  mind,  the  terror  of  some  un- 
known horror.  What  was  his  father  doing?  Why 
didn*t  he  walk  about  upstairs,  open  a  drawer,  make 
some  kind  of  noise?  Was  he  standing  quite  still 
there,  in  the  bedroom,  with  that  tragic  face  of  his, 
with  those  despairing  eyes?  What  was  he  doing? 
thinking,  preparing  to  do  ? 

Nicholas  Barton  listened.  He  held  his  breath  to 
listen.  And  in  that  moment  some  great  Force 
seemed  trying  to  draw  him  away  from  where  he 
stood,  motionless,  in  the  centre  of  the  carpet.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  be  calling  to  him,  urging  him  to 
hurry  out  of  the  room  to  rush  upstairs,  to  burst 
open  the  door  of  that  bedroom  where  his  father  was 
so  quiet.  A  tremendous  impulse  stirred  in  Nick's 
[389] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

brain,  like  some  enormous  and  passionate  instinct. 
Swiftly  he  strode  across  the  floor.  Panting  a  little, 
he  took  the  stairs  three  at  a  time.  He  was  trem- 
bling in  every  limb  when  he  grasped  the  handle  of 
the  bedroom  door,  turned  it,  and  stood  inside  the 
room. 

Then  he  knew  that  the  instinct  had  come  from 
some  Outsider.     He  had  been  called  in  time. 

His  father  stood  in  front  of  a  looking-glass.  He 
held  a  blunt,  black  thing  in  his  hand.  He  had  raised 
it  to  his  forehead  when  his  son  stood  inside  the 
room. 

"Father  r'  cried  Nick. 

With  that  shout  he  strode  across  the  room,  gripped 
his  father's  shoulder,  and  swung  him  round. 

The  blunt  black  thing  fell  out  of  his  father's  hand 
to  the  carpet  and  spoke  with  a  terrible  shock  of 
sound.  A  brick  in  the  wall  crumbled,  and  fell  on 
the  carpet,  with  a  little  cloud  of  dust. 

Bristles  stood  very  still.  His  eyes  met  his  son's 
eyes,  then  drooped.  A  wave  of  color  swept  into 
his  face,  and  then  left  him  white. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 

Nicholas  swung  round  and  went  to  the  door 
again.  Polly  was  there.  She  had  come  scrambling 
up,  anyhow,  in  a  kind  of  heap. 

"It's  all  right,  Polly.  There's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter." 

[  390  ] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

He  shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  turned  round 
again  into  the  room. 

"Father!"  he  said.     "Good  God!    Not  thatr 

Bristles  sat  down  in  the  chair  close  to  his  dressing 
table.    He  was  trembling  a  little. 

"You  came  just  in  time,  Nick,"  he  said.  "In  an- 
other moment " 

He  gave  a  deep  breath,  like  a  man  recovered 
from  a  trance,  and  the  color  ebbed  back  into  his 
face  again,  and  the  glazed  look  passed  from  his 
eyes. 

"It  was  the  hand  of  God,"  he  said. 

The  pistol  still  lay  on  the  carpet,  a  spent  force. 
There  was  no  danger  in  it  now.  Nick  was  leaning 
against  the  wall,  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  All 
his  heart  had  broken  into  tears. 

Bristles  went  over  to  him  and  put  his  arm  about 
him. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  "you  have  paid  me  back  now 
for  everything.  I'm  in  your  debt.  Fm  in  God's 
debt.  If  my  life  is  any  good  to  you — I  must  make 
amends." 

"Father,"  said  Nick,  "I've  come  back.  You  and 
I  are  together  again.  We  have  both  been  smashed. 
Let's  help  each  other  to  pick  up  the  pieces,  and  go 
on." 

These  two  men,  father  and  son,  with  the  pistol  on 
the  floor  between  them,  stood  with  God's  eyes  on 
them.  Their  souls  were  naked.  They  were  like 
[391] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

shipwrecked  men  on  one  plank.  They  spoke  things 
which  men  do  not  speak,  until  they  stand,  as  it 
were,  on  the  lip  of  eternity. 

Hour  after  hour  they  spoke,  and  the  father  hid 
nothing  from  his  son,  nothing  of  all  the  agony  of 
his  despair,  nothing  of  all  the  temptations  of  the 
devils  in  his  brain,  nothing  of  his  cowardice. 

Twice  he  had  been  broken  on  the  wheel  of  fate, 
by  two  women,  and  when  one  of  them  had  robbed 
him  of  the  son  who  had  been  the  last  straw  by  which 
he  clung  to  life,  he  had  thrown  up  his  arms  and  gone 
under. 

Then  Nick  told  his  tale — a  tale  of  disillusion,  of 
failure,  of  horrible  doubts,  of  broken  hopes.  He,  too, 
had  been  twice  smashed. 

Father  and  son  looked  into  each  other's  souls. 
There  was  no  gulf  between  them  now.  No  ghost 
divided  them.  And  sometimes  one  or  the  other  gave 
a  passionate  cry  against  the  cruelty  of  things.  Some- 
times the  boy  flamed  into  anger  against  the  mother 
who  had  borne  him,  against  all  women,  against 
life  itself.  Sometimes  the  man  spoke  in  a  kind  of 
strangled  way  at  the  remembrance  of  his  agony,  as 
though  the  black  devils  were  at  him  again.  But  it 
was  the  boy's  passionate  grief,  his  bleeding  wounds 
which  gave  the  man  new  strength,  which  filled  him 
with  the  spirit  of  fatherhood.  For  the  boy's  sake 
he  must  think  clearly,  speak  bravely,  get  back  to  san- 
ity and  self-respect. 

[392] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

"Nick!"  he  cried,  "we  have  paid  God's  price  for 
sin.  My  sin,  old  man,  let  me  not  hide  that  from 
you." 

"Your  sin?" 

"My  sin,  partly.  Lord  God!  I  see  now  that  it 
was  half  my  fault.  Perhaps  more  than  half.  Who 
can  weigh  these  things  in  the  scales  ?  Your  mother 
was  right.  Poor  child-wife !  Let  us  be  fair  to  her, 
Nick.  Let  us  face  the  truth  of  things,  now,  with 
that  thing  lying  there  on  the  carpet.  If  I  had  been 
more  patient  with  her  I  might  have  kept  her  straight, 
at  the  beginning,  and  so — at  the  end.  If  I  had  been 
more  kind  to  her  I  might  have  called  her  back  when 
she  first  went  astray.  I  called  her  a  liar  to  you. 
But  I  was  a  liar  too,  when  I  justified  myself,  when 
I  fought  for  you.  I  See  now  I  was  hard  on  her.  I 
see  it  all  in  a  white  light.    I  was  hard — hard — hard." 

Nicholas  thought  of  his  mother  when  she  struck 
the  deal  table  with  the  palms  of  her  hands  and  said : 

"Hard!    Hard!    Hard!" 

"And  at  last,"  said  his  father,  "I  chose  the  Devil's 
way,  which  is  called  Divorce." 

He  leaned  forward  and  touched  Nick  on  the  hand. 

"When  I  divorced  your  mother,  I  obtained  dam- 
ages from  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her.  But  who 
paid,  do  you  think?  Who  pays — always,  always? 
Good  God!  It  is  the  child  who  pays.  The  man 
and  the  woman  go  their  way  separately,  and  forget, 
or  stamp  on  the  head  of  remembrance.  They  find 
[393] 


BEAUTY  AND  NICK 

new  interests  in  life,  stifle  their  conscience,  and  find 
new  love.  For  good  or  evil,  their  characters  have 
been  made.  They  do  not  alter  much.  They  are 
the  heirs  of  their  own  childhood.  But  how  about 
the  child  who  is  just  beginning  Hfe,  who  needs  both 
mother  and  father,  who  needs  mother-love  as  well  as 
father-love  for  the  foundations  of  belief,  for  faith 
in  the  essentials  of  life,  for  guidance  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  journey?  You  know,  Nick,  you  know, 
old  man.  It  is  you  who  have  paid  the  price — to  the 
full — every  brass  farthing  of  it.  My  poor  old  boy  I 
How  can  I  square  up  with  you?" 

Now  that  Nick  had  paid  in  agony  and  tears,  now 
that  he  had  come  back  to  his  father  with  the  gift 
of  life,  the  older  man  was  very  humble,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  Spirit  which  had  drawn  him  back 
from  the  great  precipice,  when  he  had  almost 
lurched  into  the  depths,  he  made  a  vow  to  dedicate 
this  new  life  which  had  been  given  to  him  to  the 
boy,  who  had  suffered  for  the  sins  of  his  begetters. 

"Life  is  all  in  front  of  you,  Nick,"  he  said.  *'If 
you  will  let  me  I  will  try  to  pay  back  something 
of  my  debt,  by  comradeship,  by  a  father's  service, 
by  the  v/lsdom,  perhaps,  that  has  come  to  me  out 
of  my  folly.  And  with  you,  with  your  friendship, 
Nick,  old  boy,  I  will  grope  my  way  back  to  youth, 
and  get  a  little  stock  of  new  hope,  and  pick  up  my 
work  again.     Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Father  and  son  clasped  hands  on  it. 
[394] 


THE  PLOT  OF  LIFE 

When  they  went  out  of  the  room  arm  in  arm, 
Polly,  who  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
heard  her  master's  words : 

"Why,  Nick,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  quite  like  old 
times !" 

"I  must  settle  down  to  work,"  said  Nick.  "In  the 
old  style,  eh,  father?" 

But  both  of  them  had  begun  a  new  chapter  in  ^e 
plot  called  Life. 


THE  END 


[395) 


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